Sense and Immortality
by PinkElephant5
Summary: When a murder occurs under suspiciously literary circumstances, Jo and Henry go undercover at the Regency-themed Austen Experience.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, gentle readers! Welcome to my new fic.**

 **Funny story: when I first thought up this plot, my brain was like, "hey! what a great original idea you have there!" Then I ran it past some friends, and they said, "Oh, so it's like Austenland?" Sigh. Yes, the setting is a lot like Austenland. I choose to feel pleased that I ended up on the same wavelength as Shannon Hale by mistake, rather than feel lamely unoriginal.**

 ***Disclaimer: Forever doesn't belong to me. But ABC's not using it anymore, so why should they care if I borrow it?**

* * *

 **SENSE AND IMMORTALITY**

The dress at her feet would never be clean again.

There was also a dead human being wearing it, but Jo Martinez felt with jaded certainty that someone would be more upset about the dress. Manhattan's latest murder victim had suffered a stab wound to her chest, and even though the dress had been spared from also being pierced thanks to its low neckline, a broad stroke of darkening red stained the pale pink bodice. The blood continued downward in gory streaks and splotches, past the high waistline and over the yards of flowing fabric that extended nearly to the victim's feet. Drag marks leading to the body through damp grass and mud suggested that the back of the dress wouldn't look much better. Jo didn't think that mourning the state of the woman's clothes _should_ be anyone's top priority, but it had been a nice dress.

More to the point, it was a very unusual dress under the circumstances. Not that all murder victims shopped off the same rack, but this looked like an actual, historically accurate costume. It fit the victim so well it had to be either altered or handmade for her, and both the material and workmanship looked expensive; no thrift store bridesmaid's dress or Halloween costume here.

"Is there a film crew in town? Was our vic a movie extra?" Hanson cocked his head and frowned a little, like he was trying to recall the latest issue of _Entertainment Weekly_.

"We haven't I.D.'ed her yet," Jo said, "but the Office of Film says that no period dramas are currently in production." She looked again at the woman's body sprawled at her feet. Her hair had been swept back and twisted into a soft bun, save for a series of curls framing her face, although the process of being murdered and dumped in a park had somewhat ruined the coiffure. The dress was pale pink muslin with a delicate floral print, and white satin ribbon trimmed the empire waistline and cap sleeves.

Jo pulled out her phone and hit the first entry in her 'Favorites' menu. Hanson glanced over. "You're calling him, right?"

She nodded. "Oh yeah." Officially, Dr. Washington was the M.E. on call tonight, but there was a woman dressed in authentic Regency garb lying dead in a New York City park.

Of course she was calling Henry.

* * *

"Henry, I know you have a man-out-of-time image to uphold, but I'm starving!" They were standing in the kitchen, and Abe's father was dangling a flat, rectangular object between his thumb and forefinger with distaste. Abe was holding a large empty bowl and tapping his foot with impatience.

"Are you sure you want to eat this?" Henry asked, in a tone that begged for a negative response. "It doesn't even look like food."

"Yes, I am, and yes, it does!" Abe insisted. "No more excuses, Henry. You agreed to watch Gamera with me, and for B-grade monster movies microwave popcorn will do!"

Henry grimaced and opened the microwave with a suspicious poke at the door release. He hesitated in front of the open appliance, unsure how to proceed.

Abe sighed loudly. He set the bowl down and commandeered the pouch before his old man burned the popcorn, started a fire, or both. "Do you have to be so eighteenth century all the time?" he grumbled good-naturedly. He removed the plastic wrap, threw the folded packet into the microwave, and punched the 'popcorn' preset button to start the microwave's efficient, if soulless, cooking process.

"I'll have you know," Henry countered, "that I consider the nineteenth century to contain my truly formative years."

Abe shook his head. "Either way, you're useless with microwave popcorn, and probably hopeless at monster movie appreciation."

Just then the landline rang, and Henry turned eagerly to answer it. They both knew who the caller was likely to be. Temporarily accepting defeat, Abe called after him, "Murder will only postpone the inevitable for so long! One of these days we WILL watch a giant turtle save Japan!"

Thankful that at least one product of the twentieth century had just saved him from another, Henry picked up the receiver and said cheerily, "Good evening, Detective. Please tell me you have a good, old-fashioned murder for me."

* * *

Henry arrived at the scene quickly, intrigued by Jo's teaser for what he would find there: _You were literally born for this case._

He pulled on his blue latex gloves as he crossed the grass and approached a circle of police that included Jo, Hanson, and several CSU staff. The two detectives turned at his approach, and Hanson greeted him by saying, "Look at this, Doc; it's right up your alley."

When he was close enough to see the body, Henry instantly understood why the team had been so eager to call him in. His gaze shot to Jo, eyebrows raised, and her smile was half smirk when she said, "We knew you'd have all sorts of insight for us, being the 'student' of English history that you are."

Her emphasis on 'student' sounded like teasing sarcasm to anyone but Henry, but he heard the shared secret hiding beneath. After all, Jo was the only person present who knew that his nineteenth-century studies had been entirely first-hand.

"Quite right, detectives," he answered gamely, and knelt to examine the victim. "Cause of death is clear enough. Naturally, I'll have to confirm at the lab—"

"Naturally," Hanson muttered under his breath.

"—but I see no evidence yet to counter-indicate that the victim died as a result of the obvious stab wound to her heart. As for her appearance…" He worked a fold of fabric between his fingers, flipped a hem over to check the stitching, and leaned in to smell her hair. Jo suppressed a grin at his methods, and Hanson merely sighed and waited until he continued. "The dress is in the Regency style, based on fashions _de rigueur_ in England between 1811 and 1820."

"Yeah, we got that part," Hanson said. "It's a Jane Austen dress."

Henry looked impressed. "Very good, Detective."

Hanson shrugged. "Karen has a thing for wet Colin Firth."

Henry frowned in mild confusion but continued. "The dress itself is not contemporary with the period, but the muslin used to make it is."

"Somebody made a new dress out of 200-year-old fabric?" Jo asked. "Where did they get it?"

"Oh, the market for historic fabrics is quite active, not to mention lucrative," Henry assured her, "although materials are increasingly difficult to come by. What I wouldn't give to find some decent woven silk for a waistcoat…" Jo tried to be irritated that her partner could kneel over a dead body and be so distracted by waistcoat nostalgia. She failed.

"Why the head sniff?" Hanson's practical question broke into both of their impractical trains of thought.

"Hair sniff," Henry clarified. "I detected a trace of pomade made with lard—a substance used at that time for setting curls." He stood up and turned to face Jo. "The ensemble is not 100% accurate to the period—she wisely chose to forego the lead-tinted face powder— but otherwise this is an admirable recreation of nineteenth-century afternoon attire."

"So, not a time traveller," Jo summarized, "but devoted to the look."

Henry gave a nod. "In a word, yes." His eyes circled out from the body to the surrounding ground and zeroed in on something. "In fact, the devotion may not be limited to her." He pointed to a cluster of footprints. "Where do those lead?"

Hanson answered. "There are at least half a dozen different prints nearby. CSU is following up on each set right now."

"What's so special about those?" Jo asked.

"Judging by the height of the heel and the shape of the sole," Henry answered, "those were made by Hessians— a style popular during the same period as the victim's clothes. Unlikely to be a coincidence."

As if on cue, a pair of uniformed arms started waving from thirty yards away, half-hidden beyond a line of trees and brush. A voice called out, "Over here!"

Jo, Henry and Hanson hurried over to find an officer standing over a second body, this time a man's, lying face-down in the brush. Like the woman, he was dressed in Regency style, although he wore men's fashion.

Hanson frowned. "So what's the story? Our vic injures her attacker and they both die?" Even he sounded skeptical of that scenario.

Even with the body lying face-down, the deadly slash from one side of its neck to the other was clearly visible, but Henry was not looking at the victim's neck. He was squatting at the other end of the body, squinting through the shadows of the crime scene flood lights at the bottoms of the victim's shoes."This is not the murderer."

"Why not? He has old-fashioned shoes," Hanson countered, pointing at the man's velvet footwear, complete with heels.

Henry was about to explain when Jo spoke instead. "Those are dress shoes. Hessians are more like riding boots with tassels."

Henry looked up at her like she had just fed him the world's most suggestive tassel-based pick-up line. "Why, Detective, I didn't know you were such an expert in classic footwear."

"I've gotten familiar with a lot of outdated fashion over the last year." She cocked an eyebrow back at him, pointedly giving his waistcoat and watch fob a teasing once-over.

"Sorry to break up the fetish fest, but...double murder?" Hanson broke in.

Jo narrowed her eyes at her fellow detective, who was too perceptive by half lately when it came to her personal life, and Henry cleared his throat before standing. "Yes, well, in any case, Jo is correct. Which means—"

"There was a third person involved," Jo finished, "and our killer is still at large."

Henry snapped off his gloves. "I would like to point out that their devotion to accuracy breaks down at one vital point."

"Yeah, what's that?" Hanson asked.

"Miss Austen never wrote a murder mystery."

Hanson gestured vaguely with his pencil to include the whole crime scene. "Somebody forgot to tell the killer that."

Jo looked from one victim to the other, then back at Henry and Hanson. "What say we find him and fill him in?"

* * *

"Our victims were Jenny and Steven Brewer," Jo said without preamble, reading from a file as she entered the morgue with Hanson. Henry and Lucas looked up from their autopsy of Steven. "Their prints were in the system," she explained. "Jenny was a social worker at Rikers Island, and her husband was a nurse there."

Lucas looked back at the body with a new level of respect. "Thankless government drones nine-to-five, then hard-core cosplayers in the off-hours? I feel that."

"An enormous prison complex is certainly a far cry from the costumed finery we found them in," Henry observed.

"Yeah, well, maybe that was the point," Jo mused. "An escape from reality. What more can you tell us?"

Henry nodded to his assistant. "Lucas?"

"The victims both died sometime between 3 and 6 p.m. today," Lucas explained. "The killer cut Steven's throat with the same knife used to stab his wife." He indicated the upwardly curved red line marring the pale skin of the victim's neck. "The angle of the cut indicates that the killer attacked from a slightly higher vantage point."

"So he was taller?" Jo asked.

Henry shook his head. "Not necessarily. The killer attacked from behind with one decisive motion. If the victim were sitting and caught by surprise, he would have had little chance of defending himself in time."

Hanson added,"The Brewers both left work after lunch today. Their next-door neighbor says they were psyched about some four-day couples' retreat this weekend."

"Does she know where it was?" Jo asked.

Hanson shook his head. "No, but we're running their financials now."

The elevator doors opened, and Lt. Reece stepped out. Jo and Hanson turned to her in surprise; they could count on one hand the number of times she had visited the morgue. Henry straightened over the body and inclined his head slightly. "Lieutenant. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Reece gave him a look that gently but firmly asserted her right to visit whenever she felt the need, and she held up a printout. "Financials came back on the Brewers. The retreat they were scheduled to attend is called The Austen Experience. The website describes it as 'an immersive literary experience for couples who wish to take their admiration of Jane Austen's work and world to the next level.'"

Hanson took the printout she offered and read on. "It says here that guests are expected to 'maintain a commitment to the period' for the duration of their stay. What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means no tweeting, no microwaves, and as little intrusion from the twenty-first century as possible," Reece offered.

Henry perked up. "Sounds intriguing."

Jo ignored him. "Where is this bastion of literary preservation located?"

Hanson checked. "It's called Hopkins House. It's a Georgian-style mansion about an hour and a half north of the city."

"Dressed like that, they were either killed at the retreat, or on the way there," Jo theorized.

"And if the set of mysterious boot prints is any indication, their killer was likely a fellow guest," Henry added.

"I've made some discreet inquiries to the event manager," Reece said. "The Brewers never arrived this afternoon, but all the other guests have, and they're all still there."

Hanson's eyebrows shot up. "So someone killed them, dumped their bodies, then went back to playing dress-up and sipping cocktails? That's either an incredibly cool customer—"

"—or else he, or she, has more planned," Henry finished.

"This sounds like a How to Host a Murder party!" Lucas said enthusiastically. "Except with real murder. Talk about hard core."

Jo turned to her commanding officer and said, "I appreciate the update, Lieu, but you didn't need to hurry down here to tell us all this." She was starting to get a bad feeling about this rare downstairs visit.

A smile twitched briefly in the corner of Reece's mouth before she responded. "The event manager has agreed to admit a couple to take the Brewers' place—two of our people. We can investigate from the inside without alerting the killer of our presence, and gather the evidence we need before they have a chance to destroy it."

"It's a sound idea, Lieutenant," Henry said in approval. "A weekend house party such as this would be carefully planned for the expected number of couples, and making up the numbers will keep things flowing smoothly. By the way, Detective," he added, turning to Hanson, "the cocktails you mentioned were a twentieth-century invention. These guests are more likely drinking sherry or port, or a punch like ratafia this evening."

Hanson rolled his eyes at the historical correction, but Reece beamed. "I knew I could count on your exhaustive knowledge of this topic, Henry." She turned to include Jo as well. "That's why you two will be going undercover together at The Austen Experience."

While Jo and Henry stood momentarily speechless, Lucas grinned and patted his boss and his boss's partner on the shoulders. "Undercover couple? That's, like, my favorite trope ever! You two are literally living the dream." They both gave him a quelling look, and he awkwardly removed his hands from their shoulders. "Well, my dream anyway." He started backing away holding his clipboard as a shield. "I'll give you two a minute. You'll come around."

TBC

* * *

 _Thoughts?_


	2. Chapter 2

"Lieu, you can't be serious." Jo was in Reece's office after begging a private moment with her commanding officer. "You know me. I am not corset material."

"Perhaps not," Reece allowed, "but you _are_ Henry's partner, and he's— well, you have to admit it. He's perfect for this. His exhaustive knowledge on the subject, along with that charm, and that accent? They'll eat him up. He was born for this assignment."

Jo couldn't argue with that. She wanted to, but Reece was even more right than she realized.

"I've already cleared it with Henry and his department head. That means the only one holding us back is you." Reece gave her a searching look. "Is there some personal reason why you aren't comfortable going undercover with your partner?"

"No, of course not." Jo answered a little too quickly, then scowled a bit as she admitted, "It's just… a whole weekend of fluffy dresses and fluttering my fan? I'll stick out like a sore thumb."

"Then I suggest you get a crash course in nineteenth-century etiquette from Henry. Follow his lead, Detective; he'll back you up. And remember, curtsying and fanning is only your cover. Your real mission is still to catch a killer."

Reece moved behind her desk and sat down; she obviously considered the matter closed. "You leave at 11:00 tomorrow morning; you have until then to prepare. Henry has the details regarding the necessary…equipment." She picked up a pen and started signing something before pausing to look up and add, "And Detective? If you don't like the assignment, I suggest you work fast. If you find the evidence we need before Saturday night, you won't even need to stay for the ball."

Jo grimaced. Of course. There was always a ball. Reece looked down at her paperwork again in obvious dismissal. Before Jo turned to the door, she could've sworn she saw the woman fighting a grin.

She wasn't fighting very hard.

* * *

Jo sighed in resignation as she left Reece's office. There was no reason she and her ridiculously-overqualified partner shouldn't get this assignment. No reason she was willing to share, anyway. She certainly wasn't going to tell Reece about her occasional more-than-professional feelings for Henry, feelings that were becoming less occasional all the time, and how the thought of spending a weekend undercover as man and wife felt less like a business trip than it ought to.

Henry was waiting at her desk, watching closely to gauge her mood. "I take it you were unable to change Lt. Reece's mind?" His tone was carefully neutral, but Jo realized how it must seem that she was objecting so strongly to this assignment.

"It's not about you, Henry," she assured him. _Well, not entirely about you._ "It's just that this is _literally_ your world, and it is so not mine. I mean, I liked the books, and I've seen most of the movies, but fooling hard-core Austen fans? I don't think I can pull it off. Plus, if the murderer catches on and gets violent, no offense, but you're not a cop." She glanced around to check for eavesdroppers. "And your other 'method' for staying alive would complicate things fast."

Henry nodded his head in acknowledgement. "It's true that I'm not as useful in a gunfight as Hanson, but I hope it won't come to that." He gave her a long look that she couldn't quite interpret before he continued. "I believe we have a better chance of succeeding at this ruse than you think." He moved to stand next to her and offered his arm. "Miss Martinez, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the antique shop for a night cap? There's something I wish to show you."

Jo eyed his arm sideways as he held it there, awaiting her decision. Finally she sighed and grabbed her purse, but rather than loop her arm in his, she used his elbow to turn him toward the elevators. "I'll come, but don't push it with the gallantry. Tonight we're still in my century."

Henry let her pivot him on his heels and fell into step. "Lead the way, Detective."

* * *

Upstairs in Henry and Abe's living room, Jo was swirling the scotch in her glass while Henry rifled through a box he had retrieved from somewhere in that basement lair of his. So far he had lifted out and gently set aside a delicate porcelain bird, a handkerchief (probably a cravat, Jo corrected—he _would_ cherish old neckwear), and a leather-bound book with the page-turning title, _Domestic Medicine or, a Treatise on the Prevention and Cure of Diseases By Regimen and Simple Medicines_. He had described the contents of the box simply as a few old things, but Jo suspected these were _really_ old things, going all the way back to when he was still mortal. From what she knew of his life after being shot, they must have been difficult to recover, and very meaningful to him.

While he continued to search, she picked up the thread of their discussion from back at the station. "You say I'll fit right in, but how many city girls named 'Martinez' did you meet back in Jane's neighborhood?"

"Not many," he admitted. "I regret I never met Miss Austen personally, but I did spend some time in Bath around then." His gaze turned distant and unfocused, and Jo knew his mind was somewhere two hundred years ago.

It had been three months since a watch, a photo, and a lot of encouragement had finally led Henry to reveal his secret to her. She used to wonder where he went when he spaced out like this. Now that she knew the truth, or at least the basics, she still wondered where he went most of the time; only now, the options had greatly increased. On the plus side, he now told her the truth when she asked. That part was nice. Surreal, but nice.

It was getting late and she had a busy morning ahead of her, so she coaxed him out of his reverie. "You said you had something to show me?" She waited a moment while the here and now came back into focus for him.

He blinked and smiled apologetically. "Yes, I'm sorry. Ah, here it is." He reached in and pulled out a miniature portrait. A lovely young woman with dark hair and large, shining eyes smiled serenely out from the picture. Henry handed the tiny painting to Jo as he explained, "Her name was Rosa. She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant from Madrid, and she was enchanting. Beautiful but not vain, straightforward yet still mysterious. As a foreigner she didn't always understand the subtleties of English society, but that only increased her charm. Half the gentlemen in London were quite in love with her that season. You remind me of her."

Not sure how to take the obvious compliment, Jo shifted the focus back to his story. "And what season was that?"

"1811, I believe."

"Ah yes, a good year," she teased.

"Despite your reservations, I think you could easily use the manners of my home century to your advantage."

It was a sign that she had adjusted to Henry's secret: Jo didn't even blink at the phrase 'home century.' "Correct me if I'm wrong," she said, "but don't those manners involve a lot of gazing through my lashes and telling people what they want to hear? Explain how that reminds you of me." Her nose wrinkled a little at the thought, like she had just passed a very fragrant dumpster.

Henry found the gesture adorable, and he briefly imagined a world where he could tell her that without getting smacked, but he did have _some_ instinct for self-preservation left, so he answered more carefully. "Manners are sometimes described as social lubricant, but they're more than that. At least, they used to be. In part, they were indicators of everything people couldn't, or wouldn't, say outright: their thoughts and feelings, their intentions. Fail to pay attention and you'll miss something vital."

"So you're saying they're clues."

He nodded. "Exactly—and you, Detective, are very good with clues. Interpreting the language of manners can teach you nearly everything you need to know in a social situation like the one awaiting us this weekend. And yes," he conceded, "that language sometimes involves dancing, and flattering, and opening your fan just so. I believe I can show you enough to get by passably well for a day or two."

Jo looked again at the small portrait. She thought the artist had captured a bit of a mischievous glint in the subject's eye. "Were you one of the London boys in love?"

Henry smiled. "I did admire her, but no—by that point I was happily courting Nora."

"So why do you still have this?" she handed the miniature back to him.

Henry looked down at it. "We were friends, and I did her a favor once. It was during a house party, as a matter of fact, and not far from Bath."

* * *

 _County Somerset, 1811_

Henry entered the drawing room that evening, unconsciously straightened his cravat, and scanned the faces of the other guests looking for acquaintances. He soon spotted Nicholas Crawford and crossed the room to join his friend. He was standing with a man Henry only knew in passing as Roger Leach. They were refilling their glasses from a decanter on a side table.

Nicholas saw him approaching and exclaimed, "Henry, at last! We thought perhaps you had cried off after all."

Henry smiled. "No, I was merely detained with a patient in town. I'm not so very late, am I?"

"Most of the other guests arrived shortly after luncheon," Nicholas replied, "in time for tea, at the latest, and here it is gone seven. I was beginning to suspect that without the presence of Miss Nora King, the rest of us weren't a worthy enough distraction to drag you from your practice."

Henry accepted the glass of brandy Nicholas offered and conceded, "It is a shame that Miss King and her family were not able to attend, but I shall endeavor to be good company all the same."

"It's a good thing you've all but settled on a bride, Morgan," Mr. Leach said, filling his own glass with more brandy than was strictly polite. "Otherwise you might be sorely disappointed. The exquisite Miss Rosa Martin is in attendance, but thanks to your tardy arrival, you may never get a glimpse of her."

Henry cocked his head in polite interest. "Oh? And why is that?"

Mr. Leach wagged his eyebrows in a mild leer. "She's beautiful, witty, and likely to remain three-deep in beaux for the rest of the week."

"Not to mention rich," Nick added wryly. "Her father is one of the wealthiest merchants in Madrid. He owns even more ships than your father, Henry."

Henry shrugged. "That is true of many merchants. Morgan Shipping and Trade does well enough, but it is by no means among the largest companies on the seas."

"Martin's is," Mr. Leach stated baldly, somewhat the less diplomatic for drink.

"It's not too late to unite your two great shipping houses," Nicholas teased. "After all, you're not engaged yet, are you?"

"It's true that I have not yet proposed to Nora," Henry replied, "but my heart is fully engaged."

"Ugh! I should have known you'd be one of those damned incurable romantics," Mr. Leach snorted in disgust. "You'll never catch me so bound up by a chit that I can't appreciate a fine bit of skirt when I see it." With that pronouncement, he strode away, head high, to charm another circle with his wit.

"Pay no attention to Roger, Dr. Morgan," Nick confided. "He suffers from an incurable case of putrid bachelorhood."

"That would be my professional assessment, as well," Henry said dryly.

"That said, he was right about one thing: Miss Rosa Martin is exquisite. How she has arrived at the ripe old age of 23 without landing a husband is beyond me."

"I have observed," Henry commented wryly, "that young women of independent fortune seem far less inclined to fall madly in love with us." His friend lifted his glass in acknowledgment, and Henry patted Nick on the shoulder. "If you will excuse me, it appears that the clouds have parted. It's now or never if I'm to meet the exquisite Miss Martin."

The lady in question must have stepped out of the room for a time, because she was now standing near the doorway without her usual orbit of admirers and speaking only with their hostess, Lady Summersby.

Henry approached and bowed to the two women. "Lady Summersby, would you be so good as to acquaint me with your companion? I'm afraid my late arrival has left me behind in my introductions."

Lady Summersby curtsied and nodded her agreement. "Doctor Henry Morgan, this is Miss Rosa Martin. Doctor Morgan practices in London and shows great promise in the field of medicine."

Henry bowed over her hand and quite correctly kissed the air above it. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Martin."

Miss Martin curtsied, inclining her head elegantly. "I am relieved to hear that, Dr. Morgan. I have it on good authority that our families are rivals." She softened the challenge with a playful grin. Though her English was flawless, she spoke with a lilting Spanish accent. Add to that her mass of dark curls and large brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes, Henry could see why her beauty was so admired.

He grinned, pleased even more by the sense of humor evident in her good-natured teasing. "If you like, I will tell disparaging tales of your father's cut-rate service once your back is turned."

"My word, Doctor, such flattery. No wonder you have captured the heart of Miss King—or so I am told."

Their hostess excused herself to consult with her butler, leaving the two younger guests to their own company. Henry enquired, "What brings you to Lady Summersby's house party in the middle of the season, Miss Martin? I believe you were quite the toast of London when you left."

Miss Martin deftly arched an eyebrow. "You are wondering, are you not, why an unmarried lady would trade a great sea of eligible men for a small pond? Especially when she is not so young anymore, and maybe she is running out of Seasons?"

"I sincerely doubt you lack for eligible candidates," Henry answered honestly.

The woman tilted her head flirtatiously and held his gaze through fluttering lashes. "Yourself included?"

"Ah…" Henry stammered and began to plan a hasty retreat before Miss Martin broke the tension with a genuine laugh.

"I am sorry, Dr. Morgan. I have heard you are fully devoted to Miss King, and it was not kind of me to tease you thus. Testing men's intentions has become something of a bad habit, given my status as an aging heiress ripe for the picking."

He smiled in relief. "I strongly protest your description, but think nothing of the jest. I can't say that I blame you."

"Please allow me to break this habit with you. I know it is not the done thing, but I would dearly like a friend this week. When we are speaking privately, would you please call me Rosa?"

He bowed his agreement. "Only if you will call me Henry."

One of her devotees finally noticed that she was practically alone and began heading toward them from across the room. She flicked open her fan and smiled at his approach. "Now that we are friends, Henry, I feel I can confide in you." She fluttered her fan for the approaching hopeful, but her words were only for Henry. "You asked why I came this week. The truth is, I am on a mission. I think Lord Summersby is hiding something important from my father. I intend to find out what, and I may need your help to do it."

* * *

Jo left after agreeing to the morning arrangements that Henry had made to help her acquire the necessary wardrobe (the "equipment" Reece had mentioned). Before retiring for the night, he carefully placed each item, pieces of his personal history, back in the box, including his miniature of Rosa. Jo reminded him of her in so many ways. If there was one obvious difference, it was that Rosa had been fully aware of her power over men, even if she had chosen to wield it sparingly. Jo, on the other hand—he didn't think she realized the extent of her own charm. If and when she did embrace it, she would be a force to be reckoned with; not that she wasn't already. In his own case, he knew that if she ever reached out to him as a woman, not only as a friend and partner, he would not have the power to resist her. He doubted he would want to resist her.

Before he closed the box and returned it to the basement, he removed one last item and packed it in his luggage. He hadn't even looked at the thing in thirty years, but it was time. It might be useful this weekend.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks to those of you who caught my math mistake in Chapter 1—it has been corrected. But hey, what's a decade between friends? ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

A rented town car pulled up in front of Abe's Antiques just after eleven the next morning. The driver got out to stow Henry's luggage in the trunk while Henry opened the passenger door.

"Good morning, Detective." He slid in next to Jo, sounding chipper. "How was your session with Mrs. Yang earlier?"

Jo gave him a sidelong look. "Besides awkward and kind of boring because I was standing at attention on a stool for two hours while she measured and pinned and grumbled in Mandarin? Fine."

Henry was not the least bit put out by this review. "She's the best traditional seamstress in the city. We're lucky she had suitable dresses on hand, and that she was able to make alterations on such short notice. The woman is a wonder with historic styles."

"You must be her favorite customer," Jo quipped, but only half in jest. Peppered amongst the Chinese mumbling, Mrs. Yang had made it very clear that she was only doing this as a favor for "the beautiful Doctor Morgan."

She had a sudden thought. "So why weren't you up there on your own stool at eight o'clock this morning?"

"She already has my measurements," he said simply.

Jo resented the leisurely morning she was picturing for Henry, so she argued, "What, so there's no chance that they've cha—" She stopped herself mid-retort. "Right. Your measurements haven't changed since 1814."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "One of the few advantages of my condition."

She resisted the urge to give his "condition" a thorough eye-sweep. From the shirtless glance she'd gotten when they'd rescued him from Iona Payne's patient (not to mention the indecent exposure mug shots she'd "happened across"), his condition was excellent. Henry didn't have the 6% body fat and Hollywood muscles of a gym rat, but he was fit in an active, healthy way. A nice way; her preferred way, to be honest. Not that she was ready to tell _him_ that.

Instead she asked, "Tell the truth, Henry: have you ever gone on a six-month junk food binge and then just…hit reset?"

He gave her a lop-sided smile. "I can't say that I have."

"Really? I bet you're going to claim you never got rid of a bad haircut that way, either."

He shook his head. "By your estimation, I've been wasting my immortality." He considered her. "Is that what you would do? Eat junk food and get experimental haircuts?"

"Maybe," she countered, "among other things. I haven't really thought about it."

"I have," he assured her, "but I suggest we save that discussion until after we catch this killer."

"Agreed." Jo gestured back toward the trunk. "It's a good thing the precinct hired a car service—our luggage wouldn't have fit in mine. I can't believe all this stuff is just for a couple of days."

"It's true that the upper classes rarely traveled light," Henry admitted. "Everything in those trunks will be important in maintaining the illusion that we are just as devoted to the re-creation as the rest of the couples."

Jo pulled a stack of files out of a bag at her feet. "Speaking of the others, Hanson pulled together some basic files on the staff and guests." She handed him half.

He accepted the papers and began scanning the contents. "Do any of them strike you as the murderous type?"

She shrugged slightly. "Not at first glance, but murderers rarely do."

Henry noticed a file with no name that was instead labeled, 'Insurance Report,' and opened it. "What's this?"

She glanced over. "That is our front-runner for motive. Many of this weekend's guests have opted to bring historic items to show off—basically show and tell for Austen geeks with expensive collectibles."

"This is an impressive list," he said as he read it. "A necklace that once belonged to Austen's cousin, a collection of silver snuff boxes…this Regency-era fabric must be Jenny Brewer's dress…and—" the next item made him look up in surprise.

Jo knew what he had seen and nodded. "Yep. An original manuscript fragment from _Mansfield Park_ , recently discovered and authenticated. The owner is planning to make it public soon, but first they'll show it off here."

Henry's look turned incredulous. "If it is truly authentic, that manuscript could easily go for millions of dollars at auction. Why in the world would the owners bring that, or any of these objects, to a house party?"

"Bragging rights?" Jo ventured. "They get to flaunt their treasures in front of the people who will appreciate them the most. The manager says there are wall safes installed in each room."

"Nevertheless, they're taking quite a risk."

"Which is why the organizers offer this insurance rider against damage or theft. It's not an advertised part of the weekend, but it's an option if you know who to ask."

Henry completed her line of reasoning. "Which means that some or all of the guests must know each other. They coordinated this 'Show and Tell' ahead of time."

Jo nodded. "Hanson is still searching for who knows whom and how."

Henry looked back at the list. "Owners for each item are listed here as Mr. and Mrs. A, B, C, etc.; I assume these code names are meant to help ensure privacy and safety?"

She nodded. "Not that it did the Brewers any good. We're still trying to get the insurance company to release the full document, but there's a lot of red tape. They would only admit that our victims owned the fabric, which we already knew."

"One thing I don't see on this list is a dagger," Henry said. "The murder weapon left a distinctive pattern on one of Jenny's ribs. The shape of the blade matches that of a British naval dirk from the Napoleonic era."

"Yet more evidence that our killer was part of this retreat," Jo noted.

"Whether the motive was money or obsession, that Austen manuscript is easily worth killing for."

Jo shook her head at the task ahead of them. "One obsessed fan would be enough for a solid suspect, and we have a whole house full of them."

* * *

They pulled into a small gravel parking lot an hour and a half later. They had left the city behind about 45 minutes ago and were now surrounded by woodlands and rolling hills, almost foothills. It looked much more like the setting of a Jane Austen novel than Manhattan did, but there was still no mansion in sight. There were only half a dozen parked cars, a small stable, and a quaint, modest-sized cabin with two separate front doors labeled "Gentlemen" and "Ladies" in elaborate scrollwork.

"Our 'fully immersive Jane Austen experience' starts in a park bathroom?" she asked. "This wasn't on the website."

Henry chuckled as he helped the driver unload their trunks, authentic period luggage care of he and Mrs. Yang's own collections. "Our ride will arrive shortly. According to the online brochure, these are 'deluxe changing rooms.' The organizers know that nineteenth-century clothing does not mix well with sitting in a car, and cars are not welcome at Hopkins House anyway."

"Yeah, I read that," she admitted. "I'm just not feeling the Austen magic yet."

"Perhaps our change into appropriate dress will get you in the mood."

She gave him an incredulous look. "I can guarantee you that muslin and puffy sleeves have never once gotten me 'in the mood.'"

"I'm afraid I can't say the same." He said this with a teasing—and slightly smoldering—look, and she suddenly remembered why she flirted with Henry so sparingly. He didn't get embarrassed, and he didn't back down. She usually ended up feeling like she had started something she wasn't ready to continue.

"Speaking of your attire, would you like me to help you dress?"

"Excuse me?" Jo coughed in surprise. The tone of his offer was matter-of-fact, almost clinical; ironic, considering he'd been acting all hot and bothered at the idea of puffed sleeves mere moments ago.

"I know how elaborate women's fashion could be at the time. Many dresses were not possible to put on without a maid. So I offer my services." He made a little bow, which only half concealed his grin. This combination of New Henry who didn't hide his past and the quirky, sometimes outrageous but more familiar Old Henry was fascinating; some might say irresistible. _She_ didn't say that, but—some people might.

"Thanks for the offer," she said dryly, "but Mrs. Yang gave me a modified dress that goes on without help."

"She really is a genius," he said with obvious admiration.

"Maybe you should have taken _her_ to this shindig."

Henry smiled. "I doubt she has your skills with a locked door or a sidearm."

Jo nodded once decisively. "Damn straight, fine sir. Well, let's get this house party started."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Jo emerged from her side of the changing house. Henry was already dressed and looking out over the hills, lost in thought. His hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders were squared, and one leg was bent and angled slightly to one side in a proper but casual stance. He wore flat-fronted breeches that hugged his legs and disappeared into Hessian boots, a white linen shirt with an elaborate cravat, a dark waistcoat (that much hadn't changed from normal), and a tail coat with well-tailored front panels and two longer back panels that were split to accommodate riding, but still gave the wearer a certain dramatic flair even without a horse. All she could think was, _Good God. It's so obvious._

It was so obvious that he belonged in this world. He looked completely comfortable in the costume, like he had slipped on an old college sweatshirt. Besides, the style suited him well. Looking at his cravat, she also had a sudden revelation regarding his scarf fixation. Consciously or not, scarves and vests (waistcoats) were the closest he could come to dressing in the style of his early life and still conform to the twenty-first century, more or less.

She, on the other hand, felt like a fish out of water. A fish out of water and wearing a dress.

* * *

Henry turned at the sound of the door opening, then he momentarily froze at the sight of her. Jo was always beautiful—he had told her as much in their first few weeks as partners—but she didn't often capitalize on that beauty. At least not at work, where she dressed for respect among her mostly male peers, as well as for the practical need to run down suspects without tripping over style.

Right now, however, he was the one in danger of falling.

The scoop neckline of Mrs. Yang's creation exposed an expanse of skin that he hadn't seen from her before, although there was no real cleavage on the day dress. The high A-line style and yards of flowing fabric showed off her slim waist and lithe figure, and despite her grumbling description the sleeves were more capped than puffy and showed her toned arms to advantage.

Most surprising of all was her hair. He had seen it down, and he'd seen it pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, but he'd never seen it like this, drawn gently off her neck in a simple knot. Pieces had been artfully curled and left loose to frame her face.

He broke off his appreciative gaze to bow, not deeply but still formally by modern standards. He did it without thinking, an unconscious gesture that came back like an old accent that slips in while talking to family. "Jo, you look lovely."

"Thanks. So do you." She fidgeted a little and shifted her gaze restlessly, clearly uncomfortable.

He frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she responded automatically, then sighed and gestured at his clothes. "You just look so…natural. I happen to know you are more at home in this get-up than anyone alive, but I feel like a five-year-old playing dress up."

Henry stepped forward to take her hand. They both wore gloves, but she felt his warmth seep through the layers and mingle with her own. "You certainly don't _look_ five years old," he said. "You look beautiful, and exotic, and just a little bit out of place." She rolled her eyes and started to say something, but he continued. "In this case, that's a good thing. You have an air of mystery that wants solving. People will talk to you, and probably tell you more than they intended to." He grinned at her. "They won't know what hit them."

Jo had once heard good manners described as the art of making other people comfortable. When he chose to use them, Henry's good manners ran deep. At this moment, she was glad they were aimed at her. She squeezed his hand lightly before letting go and replied, "Let's hope you're right. I don't curl my hair for just anyone."

Henry didn't make the mistake of thinking she meant him. "I'm sure the murderer will appreciate the effort."

While they had been talking, their ride had arrived. A horse-drawn carriage pulled into the gravel drive and drew to a halt before them. A footman jumped down from beside the driver and bowed to them both. "Sir, Madam. Welcome to the Austen Experience. Are you ready to begin?"

Was she ready? Maybe wearing a froufrou dress and pretending to be married to Henry was a tad outside her comfort zone, but she was a professional, dammit, and they were undercover. She had a murderer to catch. Yeah, she was ready.

Henry caught the moment when his partner flipped the switch and engaged with their charade. "Shall we, Joanna darling?" He stood next to the open carriage door and extended one gloved hand.

She smiled serenely (at least, she hoped it looked serene and not sarcastic) and set her hand lightly in his as she stepped up. She settled herself and her dress onto the bench and replied brightly, "Yes, let's be off. I am so excited to meet everyone!" The footman had returned to his perch beside the driver, so only Henry saw the eye roll that accompanied the line she delivered.

Henry settled on the bench across from her and nodded toward the rolling hills out the window as their carriage lurched into motion. "A weekend in the country will be just the thing. Life in the city can be—"

"—don't say it, _dear_." Jo interrupted, pushing the last word through gritted teeth. Henry halted with a grin, but it was too late; the word hung in the air between them. _Murder_.

Jo wondered what the other guests of The Austen Experience would think if they discovered that among them was not only an on-duty homicide detective, but also a man who had probably nodded to their heroine in passing back in the day.

Her supposed "air of mystery" wasn't the only thing they wouldn't see coming.


	4. Chapter 4

Henry and Jo's carriage turned off the country road and onto a long gravel drive flanked by regularly-spaced shade trees, and after about ten minutes they arrived at their destination. Hopkins House was an enormous Georgian mansion with four classical Ionic columns flanking the front door and tidy shrubs and flower beds under each window. The coachman pulled the carriage around the circle drive and stopped in front of a handful of uniformed staff waiting to greet them and assist with the luggage. Henry handed Jo out, and after she shook out her skirts a little self-consciously, she plastered a polite smile on her face and took his proffered arm, all the while mentally cataloging each face she saw. She would need to find a way to interview each one without letting on that she was doing it.

A man wearing tails and a self-important air stepped forward and addressed them. "Dr. and Mrs. Morgan? I am Jeffers, the butler. Welcome to Hopkins House. I trust you had a pleasant journey?"

Jo looked to Henry and kept her smile plastered on, and he nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, thank you, Jeffers, very pleasant." He and Jo had agreed that using a variation on Henry's actual history would be the easiest characters to maintain on such short notice, but it still sounded surreal to hear herself addressed as "Mrs. Morgan." She hadn't even taken her real husband's name. She reminded herself that it must sound just as strange to Henry, who had outlived two of his own Mrs. Morgans, and neither set of memories was anything less than very, very complicated.

Meanwhile, the footmen had already unloaded their trunks and were carrying them inside, and Jeffers continued. "Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper, will show you to your room. Most of the other guests are currently picnicking at the Roman folly for the afternoon, but tea will be served at four for those who remain at the house."

"Very good, thank you," Henry replied with practiced ease, and he turned with a smile to the matronly Mrs. Bell.

Jo wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed that Henry had slipped so easily into this world of servants and social rules. Not wanting to make a weak and "womanly" first impression by saying nothing at all, Jo added, "Yes, thank you, Mr. Jeffers."

Henry leaned close to mutter, "It's just 'Jeffers' to employers and guests."

"Right! Sorry. Thank you, Jeffers," she corrected with more aplomb than she felt.

Like any butler worth his bow tie, Jeffers didn't acknowledge her gaff but merely bowed and said, "Very good, ma'am."

Mrs. Bell took over. "This way, if you please." She led them through the door and into the entrance hall, her stout heels echoing on the marble floor. Jo looked around as they passed through, taking in the layout, the decor, and notably the lack of any telephones or electric lights. Had they been stowed out of sight for the sake of the illusion, or was there truly no modern connection between here and the outside world aside from cell phones?

The housekeeper was gesturing to their opulent surroundings, explaining with pride that the owner had recently redecorated the hall in the Egyptian style. Henry smiled politely and responded, "Yes, very impressive—and quite the latest thing."

Mrs. Bell beamed and said, "Indeed, sir," clearly pleased by the compliment. She and the other staff seemed to feel a genuine sense of pride in this place, Jo observed. They were either excellent actors, or they actually did live here and maintain the house.

After he let the housekeeper get a few steps ahead, Henry muttered quietly in Jo's ear, "Egyptian was quite the overdone thing, actually. Very popular at the time, but I always found it a bit…tacky." He landed on a modern descriptor, which made Jo stifle an unladylike snort of surprise.

She gave him a mock chiding look and subtly prodded him in the side with the elbow bent around his. "I never realized I 'married' such a gossipy old woman."

Mrs. Bell led them up the grand staircase and down a corridor, past a number of closed doors, until at last she stopped and gestured through an open one. "Here we are, home sweet home for the weekend and cozy as you please. I'll give you some time to settle in. Please ring the bell if you need anything; tea will be served in the blue room." With a curtsy, she bustled away.

Jo crossed the threshold first, happy to have a few minutes of privacy for them to get settled and go over the plan. "Well, Henry Dear," she said dryly over her shoulder, "where do you think we should start—oh! Hi."

The room was not empty.

Sitting at a writing desk was a woman dressed simply but fashionably in Regency costume. She rose at their arrival and almost smiled, almost politely.

"Sorry if I startled you. I'm not supposed to pull our guests out of the moment unless I absolutely have to. Part of the experience or whatever." She stepped forward and gave them an assessing look before introducing herself. "My name is Miss Simmons. You must be Dr. and Mrs. Morgan."

"Please, call me Jo…anna," Jo corrected at the last minute, hoping to avoid answering to "Mrs. Morgan" more than she had to.

Instead of politely accepting the offer, Miss Simmons just gave a long, drawn-out sigh. "And that is exactly why I'm here."

"I beg your pardon, but why _are_ you here? Are you the event manager?" Henry asked, thinking she might be there to discuss the case. Jo tried not to glare; she didn't really understand the woman's response, but she was pretty sure it was insulting.

With some effort, Miss Simmons dragged the almost-smile back onto her face and answered, "No, I'm not the manager. That would be Mrs. Godfrey. She's probably home wearing jeans and watching HBO. I am your Austen Experience cultural attaché for the weekend. It's my job to make a mostly vain attempt to correct whatever Hollywood has mis-taught you about Jane Austen and the Regency period: clothes, manners, forms of address," she looked pointedly at Jo as she stressed that one, "behavior, current affairs, and whatever else I can fit into ninety minutes. Since Mrs. Godfrey in her infinite wisdom broke her own rules by allowing a new couple to enter mid-experience, I'm here to give you your own personal orientation. Lucky you."

Jo and Henry's eyebrows both rose at the woman's thinly-veiled contempt, a marked contrast to the rest of the eager-to-please staff they had met thus far. "You don't sound very Regency," Jo challenged, still feeling defensive.

Miss Simmons shrugged. "I don't have to be. Not in private rooms, anyway. I save my best material for the drawing room, not for couples who show up late." Even if she didn't know Jo and Henry's true identities, she must have known they were a last minute substitution and not simply late. Apparently, that wasn't a good enough excuse for inconveniencing her.

"Please, Miss Simmons," Henry began in a placating tone, "we don't wish to be a bother. I—we—" he nodded to Jo, "are quite the enthusiasts for Miss Austen. We know how to behave in this era, so there's no need for us to take up your valuable time."

Miss Simmons sighed impatiently—she was demonstrating quite the sigh vocabulary. "Let me guess: you're an immortal being from 1811."

Henry's eyes went wide. "What?"

Their attaché went on in a flat tone. "An immortal, a vampire, a moroi, whatever you call yourself. Or maybe you have a time machine?"

Jo frowned. "Excuse me?"

"My favorite is the old "portal in the bathroom wall" routine. I heard that a lot after _Lost in Austen_ came out."

Jo and Henry looked at each other in confusion. Was this woman insane? Had they found an unhinged killer already? Jo was vaguely hopeful.

Miss Simmons dashed those hopes when she continued. "Someone always thinks they can skip the orientation, and I've heard every possible reason why I should let them. But it's my job to make this experience as 'authentic' as possible." Her voice was dripping with sarcastic air quotes. "So unless you can produce your own eighteenth-century baptismal records, you are not skipping the orientation."

She glared between the two of them like she was daring them to get cute with her. Jo looked at Henry. She was in no mood for a history lecture; surely he had his own records somewhere…? He gave her a warning look back. No, she supposed that ninety minutes of extra free time was not worth revealing his secret.

Henry turned a properly chastised look toward the woman. "Please continue, Miss Simmons; we are your willing pupils."

Her flat expression didn't alter. "Delighted to hear it."

* * *

True to her word, Miss Simmons took exactly ninety minutes and covered a dizzying array of cultural, historical and literary details. She wrapped up by saying, "I left a welcome packet on your desk. It includes short summaries of the topics we just covered, not that anyone bothers to read them, a map of the house and grounds, and your schedule for the weekend."

Jo's phone chose that moment to vibrate audibly in its hiding place somewhere in her dress. Miss Simmons narrowed her eyes toward the not-ringing sound and said in a rehearsed tone, "In the spirit of the Austen Experience, please refrain from using twenty-first century slang or technology unless you are alone in your room." She pinned Jo with a look as she stood to leave, and Henry smirked.

However, their attaché wasn't quite finished. "Also, we encourage all our guests to use their natural accents—you don't need to pretend you're English to have a good time." Her eyes cut to Henry for half a second before she turned toward the door, just long enough to reveal her doubts. Jo faked a cough to hide her laugh.

Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Miss Simmons had already crossed to the door. She paused with her hand on the doorknob and added, "Speaking of your room, this was the only one available. If I were you, I wouldn't tell the other guests much about it. Rumors will fly." She exited with an "Enjoy your Experience" thrown over one shoulder, but the flimsy well wishes fell flat on the polished floor.

Henry shut the door behind her. Jo exhaled in relief and crossed to her trunk, all the while re-examining their space in the light of that final advice. The room didn't seem like an embarrassment to her. It was large by city standards and contained a dressing table with mirror, a dresser, two wardrobes, a wash basin on a stand, a bay window with a view of the back gardens, a desk, and a large four-poster bed.

Unpacking their belongings would have been part of the service, but the staff didn't need to find the pile of police files pressed between her dresses, so Jo and Henry had locked their trunks. She now produced a key from somewhere in the folds of her dress, sprung her trunk open, and started hanging the more wrinkle-prone items in a wardrobe.

"Was that really only ninety minutes?" she asked. "It feels like we lived through all of 1811. Or re-lived, for some of us."

Henry gave her a wry look that she chose to ignore. He began unpacking his own trunk into the dresser across the room from hers. "Welcome or not, she was very well-informed, and it didn't strike me as rote memorization. She must have studied the period very extensively."

"I don't remember a Simmons from the staff profiles, but that's probably an alias."

"I believe it's called role play here."

Jo snorted. "What Jane Austen character do you think she was roleplaying? I don't remember a rude, sarcastic history expert in _Pride and Prejudice_."

"From what I read in the brochure," Henry said, "neither couples nor staff are expected to roleplay canonical characters; in fact, it's discouraged."

"That actually makes sense," Jo replied. "How many Mr. Darcys does one party really need?"

"One is more than enough," Henry grumbled, and his response made Jo wonder if he knew exactly who Mr. Darcy was based on. She really did have a lot more of his stories to hear. The thought made her inexplicably happy.

Before she could ask about that story, another thought caught her attention. "What was that comment about our room supposed to mean? It looks fine to me."

Henry looked around and then back at her like it was obvious. "We only have one bed."

"Thanks, Henry, I noticed that, but it's a couples' retreat. What else would we have?"

"It's a couples' retreat set in 1811," Henry corrected. "It was a sign of wealth and status for each half of a married couple to have their own dressing room and bedroom."

"Seriously?" Jo asked with an incredulous look. "I thought that was just an Ozzy and Harriet TV thing. How did the aristocracy survive as long as it did in separate bedrooms?"

"There was usually a door," he offered lamely.

"Stop, you're making me blush." Jo unfurled the dainty fan she had just unpacked and fluttered it dramatically in front of her face before tossing it on top of her dressing table. "So you're telling me that we're the only couple here that's not a couple, but everyone else gets separate beds?"

"Are you saying that's a problem?"

She turned to look at him and found him looking right back, a mildly wicked smile on his face. He was doing it again; he was flirting with her. Even though he was probably(?) just teasing, they were standing here next to the bed they would share tonight, and she wasn't up to the challenge of responding in kind.

"We'll discuss sleeping arrangements later," Jo said. "Right now I want to get the lay of the house and grounds before the other guests get back." She had unpacked as much as she planned to for one weekend. She closed the trunk and rested her foot on the lid, hiking up her skirt over one knee in order to check the sidearm she had strapped below in a thigh holster. Henry raised one eyebrow but didn't comment. He also didn't look away.

When she was satisfied with the state of her weapon, she straightened her skirts and headed for the door. "We don't have a lot of time, so how about I do a recon of the house and you take the grounds?" He nodded his assent. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard very British throat-clearing behind her. She sighed and turned her head. "What?"

His eyes swept her and he asked, "Are you wearing that to tea?"

She dropped her hand from the doorknob and walked back toward her wardrobe in resignation. "Apparently not."

* * *

 **A/N: I know it's a bit of a funny place for a chapter break, but the scene breaks got tricky right around here. Besides, the next chapter shouldn't be too far behind. :)**

 **And may I just say: thank you so much for each and every follow, fave, and review you folks have posted! I get a little thrill in my gut every single time those emails come through.**


	5. Chapter 5

Twenty minutes later, Jo finally left their room wearing the dress and accessories that Henry deemed appropriate. She was down to one hour of searching time before they were meeting in front of the Blue Room and going to tea, where they could hopefully ease their way into the party with a few of the guests before the others returned. She had briefly studied the floor plan provided in their welcome packet, so at least she had some idea where she was going.

She walked down the hallway and away from the grand staircase they had used earlier. Out of curiosity, she tried each doorknob as she passed without actually opening the doors; some were locked, some weren't. She didn't have time for a thorough search of each suite and would need a search warrant anyway, but the next step would be figuring out which couple was assigned to each door; the information might be useful later.

The far end of the hall contained another set of stairs, much more modest than the first. The servants' staircase—no wonder she was drawn to this side of the corridor, Jo thought dryly. She headed up to the third floor.

* * *

Thanks to a few strategically-placed folding screens, Henry had stayed in the room and freshened up a bit while Jo changed. They had continued to discuss their plan for the evening as pieces of clothing fell free and others were tugged into place, dozens of buttons were fastened, cravats were retied, and jewelry was chosen.

Slipping back into extinct patterns and habits had been remarkably easy today. These clothes—not to mention the house, the servants, and the whole immersive setting—were making him feel, and unconsciously act, a bit like his old self again. His very, very old self. He still lacked that most coveted part of his life from 1811—mortality—but the rest felt like slipping on a favorite well-tailored jacket.

On the other hand, everything was a jumble: he was here with Jo, the woman who personified his twenty-first century life, but she was play-acting as his traditional nineteenth-century wife, while also flashing glimpses of thigh in their shared bedroom and packing heat under her empire-waist day dress. If time travel was possible, Henry suspected that travelers might experience something similar: a disorienting mixture of past, present and future. It was enough to make his immortal head spin.

He held up his end of their plan and explored the grounds, from the well-kept gardens and shaded path through a patch of woods to a small but fully-functioning stable yard. Henry had read that tomorrow's options included horseback riding, and he dearly hoped that it would fit into their investigation. It had been several decades since he'd had the opportunity, but he did enjoy a good, bruising ride.

He struck up conversations with each person he encountered—a gardener here, a stable boy there, though no other guests yet. He used he and Jo's late arrival as an excuse to ask about people's activities the night before. So far each staff member had an alibi that would be easy to confirm or disprove with a little checking.

An hour later, he stood in a corridor checking his watch as he waited for his "wife" to join him for tea. He didn't have to wait long. After about five minutes, Jo appeared around a corner and caught sight of him. He stifled a grin as she approached; the dress and hair were more than sufficient for the charade, but her expression, her bearing, the way she strode with purpose without mincing steps, all screamed twenty-first century. Or maybe they just screamed 'Jo.'

"Hello, Det—my dear," he corrected quickly, in case there were prying ears nearby. He knew how house parties worked, in this century or any other: intrigue was the number one entertainment. He continued more quietly, "What did you discover?"

"Nothing much. Even the servants' work spaces and kitchen are historic—not a speaker or microwave to be seen. I walked most of the floor plan and found a few locked doors I'd like to revisit. How about you?"

"Similar. No bloody daggers in the bushes, just gardeners with hedge clippers. By the way, do you ride?"

"Do I ride…horses?" Jo asked, and he nodded with a mischievous grin that asked, _what else would I mean_? "Yeah, a little. As much as junior high summer camp could teach me." She gestured in the direction of the Blue Room with a flick of her head. "So what do I need to know about tea time?"

"For today's purposes, don't pour the tea yourself, don't tap your spoon against anything, and sip demurely. You'll be fine."

"Got it: pinkies up." She took his arm and a deep breath. "Okay, let's go mingle."

* * *

The tea itself was excellent, Henry thought with approval—an aromatic darjeeling. Like Jeffers had said, most of the guests were still out on the day trip, so attendance for tea was light. In fact, they were joined by just one other couple. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were modest landed gentry from Kent with interests in the silk trade. In truth, they sounded like they were from New Jersey, but Henry merely shrugged mentally and accepted the role play for what it was. Honestly, he was glad for the discouragement of fake accents; spending the weekend with an unidentified murderer was one thing, but enduring a dozen mangled attempts at his mother tongue? Unbearable.

The Martins were an affable pair who had foregone the outing today because Mrs. Martin had twisted her ankle the night before.

"Please, call me Sophie," the woman said. "It was the damn dress. I mean, I beg your pardon," she quickly added, suddenly aware of her unladylike word choice. "I fear that I am better equipped to study these lovely gowns than to walk in them. I stepped on my hem going up the stairs and had a rather embarrassing fall."

"Apologies if this seems forward, but would you like me to examine your ankle?" Henry offered.

She held up one hand to decline. "Thank you, Dr. Morgan, but it's nothing really. Just a bit too sore for a lot of walking today."

"Are you really a doctor? Like, for real? If you don't mind me asking," Mr. Martin (Graham, he insisted) added.

Henry smiled. "I confess that I am."

Graham leaned forward conspiratorially, and Henry and Jo mirrored the motion. With a quick glance toward the door to be sure there was no one within earshot, he half-whispered, "Are you janefanboy?"

He blinked. "I'm sorry, who?"

"From AustenChat," Graham prompted. "I know we all agreed to keep usernames a secret until the end, but it's impossible not to try and guess, you know?"

When Henry's expression remained slightly confused, Jo stepped in. "What makes you think Henry is janefanboy?"

"Whenever there's a question posted about a character's medical condition or nineteenth-century treatments, he answers. I've always suspected that he's a doctor."

 _Or a nurse_ , Jo thought, _like Steven Brewer_. It sounded like AustenChat was some kind of online fan forum. That could explain how the guests knew each other but not by sight, and how the "Show and Tell" had been arranged. A shared glance with Henry told her that he had come to the same conclusion. The question was, would pretending to be the Brewers help them flush out the killer? The killer might be surprised and slip up, but he or she would also get spooked and be on guard. That wouldn't get her and Henry the evidence they needed. Jo decided to follow Henry's advice, albeit in a slantwise way, and be mysterious and vague.

"Where's the sport in telling you?" she said with a teasing smile, slipping back into the role of Mrs. Dr. Morgan, or whatever. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow evening like everyone else."

Graham chuckled. "Fair enough." At that, they all relaxed back in their chairs and reentered their roles.

"It's a good thing Miss Simmons didn't hear your forbidden modern talk, my dear," Sophie added. "She might have packed us into the first carriage home."

Jo jumped at the opening. "She is rather stern, isn't she?"

Sophie pulled a pained face. "You're lucky you arrived late. The rest of us had to endure The Lecture." The last words sounded very capitalized.

"We were fortunate enough to receive our own private lesson," Henry said diplomatically.

Jo added, "And she made it clear what an imposition it was."

Graham snorted. "She has some nerve complaining about imposition."

"What do you mean?" Henry asked.

"We were all supposed to hear the spiel—that is, her informative lecture—right after we arrived, but she wasn't here yet," Sophie replied. "Mrs. Bell told us the orientation had been postponed until ten, which cut into everybody's night. I practically fell asleep by the end, and only partly from boredom."

Jo sought clarification. "So no one saw Miss Simmons until after dinner?"

Graham shrugged. "We didn't, but I suppose someone might have. It's too bad she didn't impart her wisdom before dinner, though. Sir Benedict had no idea what to do with all those forks."

Jo and Henry exchanged a significant glance. When Sophie and Graham turned to admire the view of the garden, Henry leaned close to murmur in Jo's ear. "Sir Benedict may have had trouble with his forks, but perhaps Miss Simmons had no problem finding a place for her knife."

* * *

As far as the staff could tell, Dr. and Mrs. Morgan were meandering through the rose garden arm-in-arm after tea, having a nice chat. It just so happened that the spot offered a clear view in every direction and no concealing bushes or walls for eavesdroppers to hide behind, but why should that matter to the lovely couple?

As they lingered in relative privacy, supposedly admiring the blooms, Henry commented, "It seems that our historical expert was absent for a large portion of the afternoon and evening."

"Yep," Jo said. "Which would give her enough time to kill the Brewers, dump their bodies in the city, and still get back here by eight."

"But why?" Henry asked.

"I called Hanson a minute ago when I left to 'freshen up,' and he found a little more background on the Crabby Professor," Jo said.

Henry interrupted. "You used a cell phone outside of our room? How did you manage to avoid notice?"

"I hid in a broom closet," she said matter-of-factly, and ignored the grin this image brought to her partner's face. "Miss Simmons is actually Valerie Simonson. She's a post-doc student in nineteenth-century British history, and her student loans are higher than my mortgage. She was also passed over recently for a higher-paying management position with the Austen Experience; apparently she lacks people skills."

Henry's wry look said, _You don't say?_ "Meanwhile, her position allows her access to details on all the couples present."

"Including the insurance report," Jo finished. "She knew there would be millions of dollars' worth of easy-to-steal items here this weekend, including the manuscript, even if she doesn't know which couples brought what any more than we do."

"Perhaps she encountered the Brewers en route, they caught her rifling through their belongings, and she killed them when they threatened to expose her," Henry theorized. "She could have worn the victim's own boots while moving the bodies in order to mask her prints. Have we found their trunks yet?"

Jo shook her head. "Uniforms are still searching the park as well as likely spots along the route here. Nothing yet."

"I don't suppose she'd be foolish enough to keep a bloody dagger in her office," Henry mused.

Jo shrugged. "Probably not bloody, but a private locked office with a safe might be the most secure place to keep evidence, assuming she didn't dump it in the city."

Henry nodded. "Dumping it would be a risk. In addition to drawing attention as a valuable historic piece, the mark it left on Jenny's rib indicates that the dagger has a small nick in its blade. It would be very easy to identify as the murder weapon if found."

"Hanson is contacting the Frenchman and other antique weapons dealers about matching daggers in New York, but so far no leads." Jo sighed. "Too bad I saw Simmons heading into her office after tea. I guess making our own visit will have to wait."

They continued walking slowly through the garden. The weather was nearly perfect for being outside, pleasantly warm with a light breeze, and when rustling leaves or a chirping bird broke the silence, it augmented the quiet rather than disturb it. Henry seemed lost in thought. Perhaps he was just enjoying the garden, but Jo rarely saw him so quiet. It was slightly unnerving.

"So...now what?" she asked. "With the party agenda, I mean."

"Now we walk, or read, or rest until dinner. Needlepoint is also an option for ladies," he added, and got the narrowed eyes he expected. "Or not." He looked around at their surroundings in appreciation and took a deep breath of fresh air. "I have missed this," he admitted. "Not the grand homes and eager servants, but the pace of life. The attention to detail. You know I love the excitement of solving a mystery, but the modern world has forgotten how to simply be content in the moments between."

She turned to take him in, how completely at ease he was in these clothes, at this tempo, against the backdrop of the manor house. "You make sense here, Henry," she said simply.

"Are you implying that I usually don't?" he teased, but they both knew the answer to that.

" _Implying?_ " she stressed. "No, I'm stating. I'm saving my supply of subtle for the charming and mysterious Mrs. Morgan to use."

"You know, as much as you protest that you don't fit in here, you play the role remarkably well when you need to," Henry observed.

She shrugged at the compliment. "I finally figured out that all I needed was an antiquated speech pattern to copy." Henry saw the punchline coming, but he didn't stop her. "Whenever I really need to lay it on thick," she said too earnestly, "I just ask myself: how would Henry say it?"

He gave her a wry smile and was about to respond to the backhanded compliment when they heard the crunch of hooves and wheels on gravel, as well as a number of excited voices coming from just out of sight around the front of the house.

"There goes our easy search window," Jo sighed, "but at least now we can interview the rest of the guests. Maybe they can tell us more about Miss Simmons's whereabouts yesterday."

Her arm still linked casually with his, Jo took a few steps toward the sound of the arriving carriages, but Henry held her back. "Where are you going?"

She frowned at his hesitance. "To meet everybody."

"As they arrive?" Henry asked incredulously. "We are neither servants nor the hosts. Besides, most will want to retire to their own rooms to dress for the evening. Introductions will have to wait until we gather for dinner."

Jo didn't doubt he was right, but she gave him an irritated look anyway, as if he were solely responsible for saddling the world (and her specifically) with nineteenth-century British customs. "Henry, did you do _anything_ besides change clothes and eat 200 years ago? Because I don't see how you found the time."


	6. Chapter 6

Ten minutes of normalcy—that's all Jo managed to get after returning to their room between the garden and dinner. The moment their door was safely shut and locked, she fished her cell phone out of her bodice (Henry cocked his head in bemusement at how women managed to store things there undetected) and called Hanson for an update.

"How was tea time, Mrs. Morgan?"

"Yeah, that never gets old, thanks." Hanson was taking perverse pleasure in calling her "Mrs. Morgan" every time she checked in. He claimed he was helping maintain her cover, but Jo could practically hear him smirking through the phone. "What have you got?"

"Uniforms found the Brewers's trunks in a ravine along the border of the park," he told her. "There's a service road that runs along it, and it looked like the trunks had been rolled straight out of a vehicle and down the slope."

"What was their condition?"

"The locks had been forced, but no prints besides the Brewers's inside or out, and we have no way of knowing if there's anything missing, like say a pair of boots."

She told him what they'd learned about AustenChat, and he promised to get the tech department on it right away. Hopefully they could access chat history as well as match usernames to real people. Before they hung up he told her to enjoy the honeymoon, and she had a few choice parting words for him.

After that all-too-brief twenty-first century moment, it was back to the 1800's. She dressed for dinner. She did her hair for dinner. She got a crash course from Henry on proper fork usage and conversation etiquette for dinner. She was sick of dinner already, and they hadn't even gone downstairs yet. She dreamed of eating a gyro instead, and she vowed to do just that as soon as they solved this case. She would eat street food with her hands as soon as possible. She might even chew with her mouth open for good measure.

However, that would have to wait until she went back to the future. For now, she was stuck in 1811, and they were about to enter the drawing room.

They crossed the threshold with polite smiles in place. "Dr. and Mrs. Morgan," Jeffers intoned to announce their arrival, and every pair of eyes turned to look at them with open curiosity. Jo may have gripped Henry's arm just a little tighter, but she refused to let her smile falter, even when a little voice in her head asked, _Do you really think you can keep your own secret long enough to discover theirs?_

Henry glanced over at his partner. On her face he saw determination, discomfort, irritation, and the smiling mask of her cover layered one on top of the other. He knew her well enough to know that because of that first layer, she would do just fine.

* * *

 _County Somerset, 1811_

Henry had to wait for hours before he found the chance to ask Miss Rosa Martin what she had meant by her intriguing request for help. He was seated too far away at dinner for any private conversation, and afterwards she was much sought after as a partner for cards. It wasn't until someone begged the honor of hearing her play and sing at the pianoforte that the opportunity presented itself. More accurately, Miss Martin presented it.

"I am happy to play if Dr. Morgan will turn the pages for me."

All eyes turned to Henry, some of them downright hostile at his being so singled out by the beauty. He played along. "I see your intentions, Miss Martin: I boasted to you of my skill at page-turning, and you mean to uncover my bald-faced lie. Very well, I accept." He moved to her side near the instrument amid scattered polite laughter, and they made a show of needing a few minutes to find a suitable piece of sheet music.

"That is not all I wish to uncover," she said quietly, without turning from shuffling through music.

"You said that Lord Summersby is hiding something from your father. What is it?"

"I do not know for certain, but it cannot be good. He has taken great pains to hide it. As you know, he and my father do business together." Henry nodded; it was common knowledge in the shipping industry, and his father had mentioned it. "I often help Father in the office during busy seasons," Rosa explained. "I know this is not seemly for a woman, but I find I am good at it." She gave a very continental one-shouldered shrug, and Henry smiled. He knew enough capable, shrewd women to not find the idea shocking.

"Over the last year," she continued, "there have been…irregularities. Shipping manifests go missing, ship captains and crews are changed at the last minute, things of this nature. I once visited a warehouse that was supposed to contain a large shipment of rice awaiting transport. The warehouse was empty, yet the intended ship sailed a few days later. Many carpenters and blacksmiths came and went from the ship in those two days, but not a single grain of rice."

"Have you told your father about this?" Henry asked with concern.

"I have not," Rosa confessed. "First I must know if he is a willing part of it. I pray he is not."

"Part of what? What do you suspect is happening? Fraud?" Henry ventured.

Rosa finally looked up at him, a Mozart sonata held tightly in her hands. "Worse. I think they are slaving."

* * *

 _Hopkins House_

"I say, Morgan, that's quite the beauty you married, what what!" A man with the unfortunate pseudonym of Sir Benendict Bandersnatch thumped him on the back and chortled. Dinner had gone well, mostly introductions and literary small talk over the span of several courses, and now the schedule called for drinks and games in the drawing room.

According to Hanson's files, "Bandersnatch" was a retired account executive. As far as Henry could tell, the man had learned everything he knew about Jane Austen from watching movies, and judging from his deplorable lack of understanding, even that had included multiple naps and snack breaks. Most likely he just enjoyed playing dress-up.

Henry drew on 235 years of practiced politeness and answered, "Thank you, Sir Benedict. I consider myself a lucky man."

Another man who had introduced himself as Mr. Gibson snorted. "Lucky is right. The Morgans are in the Spare Room."

All the gentlemen chuckled and gave him knowing looks; more like leers, Henry thought. "I don't follow your meaning," he hedged, even though he knew exactly what they meant.

"Some of us have been here before, Doctor. Your room is not a suite." The speaker was a man named Pennyworth, who had shown himself to be very knowledgeable on both Austen and the workings of Hopkins House.

"Which means," said Graham Martin, "that while the rest of us will have to romance our own wives all evening to even get that damned connecting door unlocked, you can just slide right into bed."

"Lucky," reiterated Mr. Gibson with a shake of his head.

"I thought romancing our wives was the reason we came to a couples' retreat," Henry ventured. Some of the men smiled or shrugged in tacit agreement, while others snorted.

"I came for entirely different reasons," Pennyworth offered vaguely, "but there's always a romantic in the bunch who makes the rest of us look bad. Newlyweds, I take it?"

"It's true that we haven't been married long," Henry said carefully, and almost honestly. It had been less than eight hours, although the actual 'married' part was stretching it. Of course, he and Abigail had told the world they were married for ten years before they made it legal, and the charade had become real to them long before they had a signed document. Some time ago he had realized that in his heart, she had become his wife when she wouldn't let him run. His ugly truth had been exposed, and she had stayed with him. Accepted him. Loved him.

When he thought about it in that light, he and Jo's charade as man and wife suddenly felt less like a convenient fiction in pursuit of a killer and more like…something else. An echo of the past, certainly, but maybe something more. Something like a prelude.

Henry's eyes were drawn across the room to Jo. Actually, all the men were now watching her as she chatted with a circle of ladies. The room was lit naturally, and the candlelight only served to highlight her high cheekbones and lovely complexion. She must have sensed all those gazes, because she looked over and caught his eye. She raised an eyebrow and gave him a knowing look that said _, you're talking about me, aren't you?_ She returned her attention to her own conversation, but she opened her fan very deliberately and started running one finger slowly back and forth along the edge.

"I don't speak fan," said Mr. Martin, "but that's hot." The others were too caught up in silent agreement to correct his slang.

* * *

Jo let her finger trace the edge of the fan a few more times, the signal Henry had shown her for "we need to talk" — well, the signal plus a little bonus stroking—before she had mercy on the men and casually folded the thing back up. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed more than one gaping mouth, and she repressed a little grin of triumph. It served them right for ogling. Taunting aside, she really did need to speak with Henry.

"Nicely played, Joanna," Sophie Martin commented. "Your husband should come running any minute now."

"Along with the rest of our husbands," Mrs. Pennyworth added, in a tone that was dry but not bitter. Jo had been careful to be friendly to the men but flirtatious only with Henry. After all, the female guests would not open up to someone they viewed as a threat.

"It wasn't too much?" Jo fished for reassurance.

"Not at all," said Caroline Gibson with a little smirk. "Especially not if you plan to take full advantage of the Spare Room tonight."

Jo leaned forward conspiratorially. "The 'only room available' has never looked so good." The other women nodded in appreciation. Jo got the impression that their marriages ran the gamut from happy to strained, but they only needed to be straight to appreciate the sight of Henry in that outfit—and probably not even that. Empirically speaking, he was quite hot, to borrow his own words.

"Mrs. Joanna Morgan" was a new bride with a Spanish émigré mother who had grown up in the country and was new to city ways—the irony of that cover was not lost on Jo. Revealing real identities (if usernames counted as "real") wouldn't happen until tomorrow night at the ball, if at all, but most people were dropping little hints here and there about their lives outside Hopkins House. Jo had implied that she and Henry actually were newlyweds, and that he was the real Austen enthusiast between them.

As much as she hated to admit it, he had been right. Her cover had been surprisingly successful so far; the women had taken her under their wings as a newbie who had married into the "Austen family," as Mrs. Bandersnatch had put it. They gently corrected her mistakes and answered her questions without suspecting any ulterior motives. She had even gotten some hints of information about "The Exhibition" coming up on Saturday, which was just as loosely-kept a secret as everything else. Once she had gotten over her initial discomfort at the setting, she remembered that people acted on the same human nature and the same impulses here as anywhere else, and she could navigate the waters better than she expected.

"Honestly though, where did you find that man?" Mrs. Pennyworth asked. "I've met my share of 'gentlemen' over the years (in-character code for 'male Austen roleplayers,' Jo had learned), but Henry…well. Henry is in a league of his own." The other women quickly agreed. Jo knew it wasn't about how he looked in breeches—well, not _only_ about that. Henry moved through this world effortlessly, and it wasn't based on book knowledge or the ability to deliver a line. He behaved like a legitimate nineteenth-century gentleman, and everybody knew it. No one else knew _why_ it was true, but they all saw it.

"A mutual friend introduced us," Jo said, "and we've been together ever since." The "friend" she was picturing was a dead subway conductor, and in that mental image Henry was holding out a handful of disgusting heart foam, but based on the fond smile the memory put on her face, the other women were probably picturing something a bit more traditionally romantic. "Now if you'll excuse me," she said, "I'm going to go powder my nose. If it takes him more than two minutes to follow me, I'm turning in my fan."

* * *

It only took him one minute.

He found her waiting for him in the library and closed the door behind him. "Have you discovered something new about Miss Simmons?"

"Everyone but us was here last night in time for dinner at eight," she said. "Simmons didn't officially make an appearance until her orientation at ten, but one of the women saw her ride into the stables on horseback just after 7:30."

"If she had a car waiting off-site, she could easily have driven to the city and back within our time window. The stables we saw next to the changing house would allow her to keep a horse waiting until she returned."

Jo headed for the library door, gesturing Henry to follow. "C'mon; her whist lesson is about to start, so she's not in her office." Once they confirmed that the corridor was empty, they walked to the end and around the corner to Miss Simmons's locked door.

Jo fished a small set of lock picks out of her bodice, and Henry grinned in appreciation as she set to work. "Very resourceful, Detective. However, won't she notice that we're missing?" He had turned to face away from the door and shield Jo from view in case any unexpected visitors came around the corner.

"Yeah, but with the look you were giving me, everyone will just assume we needed a little privacy."

"The look _I_ was giving _you_?" Henry protested. "I'm surprised every man in that room didn't answer your fan summons."

Jo only twitched an eyebrow and smiled unrepentantly as the lock clicked open and she swung the door open to admit them both.

The inside of Miss Simmons's office contained an oak desk, a few chairs, and a few decorative tables. Even in here, there was no outward sign of modern convenience. Jo circled to the working side of the desk to examine the neat stacks of files and papers, while Henry followed the perimeter of the room, examining the book shelves and paintings on the walls.

"These are the same guest files the manager provided for us," Jo said, "except no sign of the insurance rider."

"Mrs. Godfrey may have only trusted a few of the household staff with the content list for the Exhibition," Henry said. "Probably the butler and housekeeper. However—"

"Let me guess," Jo finished. "Nothing stays secret at a house party."

"Not even if you lock it away." Henry had halted his circuit of the room in front of a landscape painting in an ornate frame. Two spots on either side of the gilded wood were slightly shinier from frequent handling. He gripped those spots and lifted the picture off its hanger, revealing a safe set into the wall behind. "We may be in luck—there's no combination, only a lock."

Jo crossed to examine the safe door. "That's a very good model. I doubt I can get in without the key."

"Yeah, that's sort of the point."

Jo and Henry whirled at the sound of a third voice to find Miss Simmons standing in the doorway.


	7. Chapter 7

Jo and Henry whirled to face Miss Simmons, who was standing in the newly-reopened door, arms crossed. They each mentally scrambled for an explanation, but examining a locked safe after breaking into a locked office was hard to cover gracefully.

Miss Simmons did not look inclined to listen anyway. "I came back for an extra deck of cards, but I see Sir Benedict isn't the only one trying to stuff aces up his sleeves." She crossed quickly to her desk and opened a drawer. Jo instinctively reached for her gun and cursed when she realized her holster was not at her hip, but Simmons was only retrieving her phone. "Her Holiness the Manager has a very short list of reasons we can use cell phones without getting fired, and guess what? Calling the police is one of them."

"Wait!" Jo took two quick steps forward to stop her; uniforms rolling in with lights flashing would ruin everything. She halted when Simmons looked alarmed and unlocked her phone. "You don't need to call. We _are_ the police."

"Sure you are," she said. "Let me guess: Scotland Yard?"

Henry _had_ done a stint consulting with the Yard after the Ripper case, but this didn't seem the right moment to mention it.

"No, we're NYPD. I'm a detective, and he's a medical examiner. Henry?" Jo held out her hand to him, palm up, and after a brief moment he caught her meaning.

"Yes! Of course." He reached slowly inside his jacket, trying not to spook Miss Simmons into dialing 9-1-1. He pulled out a flat leather wallet and handed it to Jo, and she opened it to reveal her badge—not everything fit down her bodice.

"I'm Jo Martinez, Homicide, and this is my partner, Dr. Henry Morgan. Would you mind putting down the phone and showing us the inside of that safe?" Miss Simmons's position as Number One Suspect was slipping fast—Jo didn't think the real killer would be so eager to call the police—but she still needed to follow through.

Simmons frowned. "Homicide? What are you doing here? Nobody's dead."

"The Brewers didn't simply cancel," Henry explained. "They were murdered en route to this retreat."

"And we have reason to believe that someone in this house was involved," Jo finished. "Ms. Simonson, can you tell us where you were between 3 and 8 p.m. yesterday?"

She blinked in surprise at the use of her real name before she processed what Jo was saying. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—you think _I_ killed two guests? Maybe I've fantasized about that, but not for real. Just in a "this job sucks" kind of way. I've never even met the Brewers. Why would I kill them?"

"To sabotage the retreat after management refused to promote you," Jo began.

"...and because you were looking for an extremely valuable object—one that could erase your substantial debts," Henry finished.

Simmons—or rather Simonson—frowned. "Are you talking about the _Mansfield Park_ manuscript?"

"So you admit that you know it's here," Jo confirmed.

"Of course I know. It's the reason I didn't flee this nuthouse Thursday night." Henry and Jo both raised their eyebrows at what sounded like a confession, but she continued. "You're wrong about my debt. I mean, yes, I do owe hundreds of thousands of dollars, and my measly paycheck here doesn't even cover monthly payments, but I've got it covered."

Jo pinned her with an interrogation-room stare, one that made it clear that vague claims of innocence would not be enough. Simonson folded, like Henry knew she would. His partner really was very good.

"If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone where I was?"

"No." Jo didn't elaborate.

The woman sighed, realizing that aside from the deck she still clutched in one hand, she had no cards to play. "Look, I'll admit that I was pretty pissed off when Mrs. Godfrey wouldn't even give me an interview after four years of quality service, but I got over it."

"Just like that?" Jo asked, voice dripping with doubt.

"Yeah, well, this helped." She crossed to the safe and opened it with a key from around her wrist. From her vantage point over the woman's shoulder, Jo could see clearly inside: there was no dagger, only a stack of papers. Simonson removed the entire stack and handed it to Henry, who began reading.

"It's a contract from NBCUniversal," he said, turning the pages and scanning for important information. "It seems Ms. Simonson is to be the technical adviser for a television program, and at a very lucrative rate."

Simonson filled in the details. "I'm consulting on a new period drama premiering next year. It's crazy good money. It's also a closely guarded project. I had to sign about 50 nondisclosure agreements, and if I break any of them, the deal is off. Hence my reluctance to talk about it."

Jo pressed on. "If you just landed the job of a lifetime, why do you seem less than thrilled?"

She threw up her hands. "Because Mrs. Godfrey wouldn't let me out of my contract, and I'm stuck here this weekend! I was supposed to be in LA yesterday for a meeting. Thankfully, they let me Skype in. That's where I was, to answer your question: I told Gladys I had a family emergency, not that she believed me, and I went into town to find some decent wifi."

"Gladys?" Henry asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Mrs. Hill. The housekeeper and resident female warden. Earlier in the week I was ready to just say 'screw it,' break contract, and never look back, but then I saw the insurance rider." She looked from Jo to Henry and back like it was obvious, and Henry nodded.

"You're a specialist in nineteenth-century British history," he reasoned. "The chance to see the only known manuscript of a Jane Austen novel would be too good to pass up." Simonson nodded in confirmation.

Jo was all but convinced that this wasn't their killer, but she wasn't ready to let Simonson off the hook quite yet. "I'm going to need the names and numbers of the people you were skyping with to confirm your alibi," she said.

Simonson gave one of her long-suffering sighs and nodded in agreement. "Would you do me a favor and call them yourself?" she implored Jo, then narrowed her eyes toward Henry. "Don't let him do it. They would like him—a lot—and I need this job."

* * *

Jo called Hanson with Simonson's alibi information, and he said he would follow up right away. In the meantime, the historian agreed to continue her role for the weekend as planned. None of the other guests had come looking for them—apparently no one was in a hurry to play whist—so no one had witnessed what happened in her office. Simmons (they reverted to her Hopkins House name to avoid slip-ups) returned to the drawing room first with the nearly-forgotten deck of cards. When Henry and Jo followed shortly thereafter, they were met with wagging eyebrows and suggestive teases that seemed better suited to bawdy romance novels than Jane Austen, or so Henry thought, but at least their cover was intact.

More mingling followed, along with half a game of whist, but the game was abandoned when a spirited debate developed about the role of the military in Austen's novels. Jo didn't have much of an opinion when it came to Napoleonic militia, and she was having a hard time pretending to be interested. All she really wanted to do was excuse herself and check in with Hanson, but she had already conspicuously disappeared once this evening; she didn't want to press her luck.

Henry noticed her restlessness. When the debate came to a natural lull, he announced, "From the looks of the schedule, we have a full day tomorrow. Joanna, my dear, would you care to retire?"

"Yes, I suppose I'm a little tired as well," Jo played along, giving the other guests her best attempt at a wan smile.

Several of the other ladies declared that they, too, were ready to retire, and the party officially broke up for the night. On their way to the stairs Henry was drawn into conversation with Mr. Pennyworth, and Jo ended up walking next to Sophie, who was still limping a bit.

"You're not fooling anyone, you know," the woman said under her breath.

Jo tensed but quickly schooled her features. "What do you mean?"

"You don't look the least bit tired to me." Sophie gave Jo a wink. "And neither does Henry. You've been antsy—I mean, anxious—to get upstairs ever since you got back from powdering each other's noses. Not that I blame you," she added, with an appreciative glance forward. "Seriously, is he for real?"

"I wonder the same thing most days," Jo said. Sophie didn't need to know that her reasons for wondering were entirely different. Well, mostly different.

The guests said goodnight as they arrived at their individual doors, and Jo took careful note of who entered each one. She and Henry entered their room—together, as everyone was so eager to point out—and began preparing for bed. Their one, singular bed. _Not a big deal,_ she told herself. They were professionals, and friends, and this was not a problem.

* * *

"We appear to have a problem." Henry's disembodied voice came to her from somewhere beyond her changing screen. "If Miss Simmons is indeed innocent, that leaves us with no current suspects." Jo's call to Hanson had revealed only that Hollywood executives were difficult to get a hold of without an agent, even for the NYPD. Confirmation would have to wait until morning.

"No," she countered, "that leaves us with a lot more suspects. There are eight other guests, plus staff. We have a busy day tomorrow." She unfastened the last of the buttons and hooks and ties that held her into this getup, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she finally freed herself and pulled on her pajamas.

It had taken her far too long to decide what sleepwear to pack. She certainly wasn't going to bring a nightgown or anything slinky. On the other hand, it was August and there was no air conditioning here, plus she didn't want to make it _too_ obvious that she had thought about it so much. In the end, she had decided that a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a tank top gave the impression that she had packed casually.

When she emerged from behind the screen, dress over one arm, she found him standing in front of his open wardrobe, hanging the last of his clothes inside. He was wearing a robe, and Jo could only assume he wasn't naked underneath; all she could see were bare calves and a triangle of chest.

He turned to face her, his eyes unmistakably taking her in. The look on his face was nothing she would describe as lustful, but it might pass as deeply affectionate, and that seemed nearly as dangerous.

"Congratulations—you survived your first day in 1811." He crossed the room and held out his arms. For a moment, she thought he was reaching out to hold her, and she almost stepped back in surprise when she realized he only meant to take the dress off her hands. She handed it over, and he carried it to her wardrobe and began putting it to rights on a hanger.

"Yeah, it wasn't so bad." She watched him fussing with the garment and mentally shook off her misunderstanding with a tease. "Let me guess: you worked your way through medical school as a lady's maid?"

He smiled. "No, but I'm the one who will have to answer to Mrs. Yang if her gowns are rumpled."

While he fussed with the dress, she eyed the bed again and finally broached the topic. "So, we haven't talked about sleeping arrangements yet."

"No, we haven't," he agreed, and continued what he was doing.

She hadn't expected him to not offer a solution, and she had no response ready. When the silence lasted a second too long, he turned from the wardrobe to give her a mock-serious look. "I assure you, Detective, that _I_ will be able to control myself. I will stay firmly on my side of the bed."

She caught the not-so-subtle emphasis in his statement. "Don't worry, Doctor, your virtue is safe with me. I'm just concerned for your safety; if any uninvited limbs wander onto my side, I can't be held responsible if you end up bruised."

"Duly noted," he said. "I shall guard my shins carefully." The dress was finally arranged to his satisfaction, and he circled back to the opposite side of the bed.

Their whole conversation sounded a little forced to Jo's ears, a little shy of honest, but at least this way she didn't have to face the flutterings in her gut quite yet. Her gut could just keep on fluttering; for now, she would keep on ignoring it.

She was standing on the left side of the bed, he on the right. It was only a coincidence, she told herself, or unconscious habit, that she had claimed the same half of the bed that she did at home; the same half she had slept in with Sean. If she had more experience with undercover operations like this, she might have intentionally chosen the opposite side just to maintain some mental separation. Next time, she would. Traitorously, the idea of "next time" caused her gut to twist again. She was pretty sure it wasn't undercover police work in general that had triggered it.

She realized that she had been standing at the bedside for too long. She didn't want to look hesitant, didn't want Henry to see that this meant more than police business as usual to her unruly gut. Without further ado, she lifted the corner of the covers and slid into the cool, crisp sheets.

Henry looked down at her with an expression that seemed a little knowing and a little sad, and she suspected that he knew she was thinking about Sean. Maybe he was thinking about Abigail, too. Before he could say something unbearably considerate and threaten her defenses, she went on the offensive. "You once told Reece that you sleep naked. Was that just a line to explain your skinny dipping, or am I about to get a show?"

Henry saw this for the diversion that it was, but he didn't comment. Instead he loosened the sash around his waist as he replied matter-of-factly, "I only sleep naked when I have good reason." With that, he removed his robe to reveal boxers. He hung the robe over a chair back and slid under the covers on his side of the bed. He had seemed completely unselfconscious about stripping down to his underwear in front of her. Of course, after 200 years of materializing wet and naked in public places, Jo could understand how he might have an unusually low sense of modesty, even with his ye olde upbringing.

The mattress shifted slightly as his weight settled in, but it was a large bed, and they easily occupied separate sides without touching. Henry leaned toward his nightstand and blew out the candle burning there, and Jo did the same. The window shades were open to admit a pleasant night breeze, and the waxing moon gave them enough light to make each other out clearly as they lay side-by-side on their backs, the sheet folded down at their waists.

Jo laughed a little.

"What?" Henry asked.

She turned her head to look at his profile. "Do you remember the last time we were in bed together?"

He smiled and turned his head as well. "We were testing the gas levels in Eric Shaw's apartment," he replied, "and wearing full face masks. Surely this weekend's dress code is more comfortable than that."

"The jury's still out on that one." The conversation they'd had through those gas masks suddenly filtered back to her in a new light, and she shifted onto one hip and elbow to face him directly. "So all those ways to die that we talked about that day, your insights into which ones were the worst—that wasn't theoretical knowledge, was it?"

He shook his head on the pillow. "All trial and error, I'm afraid. Sometimes literal trials," he added, "if witch trials and lynchings count."

"No, I'd say those belong in the 'murder' category."

He smiled. "I applaud your definition of justice."

Her gaze was drawn then to the rough contours of the scar on his chest, thrown into relief by the moonlight, and the grin of her lightening mood faded. "Is that what your first death was about? Justice?" She had begun to unconsciously reach her fingers toward his scar when she caught herself and dropped her hand onto the mattress in the narrow gap between them.

He turned his face toward the ceiling as he considered her question. "I told you I was shot defending a slave, and that The Empress of Africa was my father's ship." She nodded. He seemed to gather his thoughts before continuing. "I've had over 200 years to think about that night. There were many heroic men and women aboard that ship, but I do not count myself among them. I may have opposed the slave trade, but I was not on board The Empress seeking justice. The truth is, I was seeking redemption—for my father and myself. It wasn't heroic; it was selfish."

His voice remained low and calm, pitched for a moonlit conversation, but a current of self-recrimination flowed beneath his words.

She let the silence settle for a moment before she spoke. "Henry, Isaac and hundreds of other people are alive today because of what you did that night. Does it matter whether your motives were pure? You may be immortal, but you're only human. I say cut yourself some slack and move on. Everyone else on that ship did."

At that he turned on his side to face her more fully and held her gaze. "Thank you, Jo."

"For what?"

"For being my partner. For not running away." He smiled. "For not making me sleep on the floor."

"You're welcome," she said simply, and reached up to grasp the hand that rested between them, near his heart. They lay like that for a few heartbeats, hands clasped and bodies facing each other across a narrow strip of mattress. Finally she exhaled and let go of his hand, breaking the spell. "Speaking of sleep, we've got a big day tomorrow." She had drifted toward the middle, and she started shifting back. "Good night, Henry."

"Good night, Jo," he answered, and they each retreated to their own sides of the bed, and into their own thoughts. Jo fell asleep to the sound of Henry's regular breathing, at rest but not asleep, and the quiet, certain knowledge that she wanted to fall asleep this way again.


	8. Chapter 8

Henry slept more soundly than usual that night, and much later. Instead of coming fully awake at dawn, he gradually became aware of sunlight filtering through his closed eyelids and sensed it must be at least eight o'clock.

That wasn't the only thing he sensed.

He heard Jo's regular breathing very close to his ears. He smelled the unique scent of her hair and skin. He felt her…everywhere. He opened his eyes. Sometime during the night, they had both shifted to the middle of the bed, and now they lay together on their sides. She was nestled into the front of his body, fitted to him from thigh to shoulder.

Henry had not woken up in daylight next to a woman in thirty years; not since Abigail left. He'd fallen asleep with one occasionally, but by morning he was always gone. He had developed a keen sense for finding women who shared his desire to enjoy a night together and then move on without complication or entanglement.

The situation this morning was looking very entangled so far. His free arm was draped across his partner's waist in a rather possessive way, and his nose and cheek were half-buried in her hair. He unconsciously took a slow, deep breath, savoring the familiar scent of her—earthy and unpretentious and feminine. Judging from the even sound of her breathing, she was still asleep, but he knew that she didn't normally sleep this late either—his grace period wouldn't last much longer. He was still contemplating how best to extricate himself when she moved. Henry froze. He didn't think she would appreciate waking up this way.

She didn't wake up, not quite yet. She hummed softly and shifted, nestling into the comforting form behind her—his form—and without thinking, Henry tightened his arm around her in response, pulling her gently back into him. He let his eyes drift shut and lay there with her, just for a moment. Despite the awkwardness he knew would come if she woke up, here in this moment he was content.

Once she gradually settled back into stillness, he forced himself to carefully lift his arm away from her body, roll toward his side of the bed, and sit up. He turned to look back at her; he couldn't see her face, but her ribcage still gently expanded and contracted in regular time. He forced down the uninvited twinge of regret he felt that the moment was over—examining that response would have to wait— and he rose to prepare for the day.

* * *

There were times, especially during the first few months after Sean died, when Jo had dreamt he was holding her, only to wake up and find herself alone. She had come to dread those mornings, betrayed by her own subconscious and forced to mourn him all over again. She had avoided waking up in the arms of one-night stands, leaving before dawn except when too much alcohol made her oversleep and take the walk of shame in broad daylight. Besides not wanting to get attached, she was driven out of bed by the possibility that she would dream _that_ dream and wake up thinking that a stranger was Sean. Even if the illusion only lasted a few seconds, she feared that the gaping hole in her heart would reopen and swallow her whole.

When she woke up that morning to feel a warm presence at her back and an arm wrapped around her waist, Jo was surprised to realize that she knew it was Henry. There was no dawning of the bitter truth, no sinking realization; she just woke up knowing. That alone was unexpected.

Equally surprising was that she didn't mind. Part of her thought she should, and even a month ago she would have, but she allowed herself this moment to be comfortable, and close, and to trust her impossible partner in this unexpected way, and to just be...content. Just for a moment.

She heard his breathing change and knew he was awake. He didn't move, and neither did she. She kept her own breathing slow and even to mimic sleep and buy herself a little time. She may have enjoyed the moment, but she wasn't ready to discuss that fact with Henry yet. He seemed equally unsure what to do, although she felt him inhale deeply and knew he was breathing her in. She suddenly realized she was matching his breath with her own, and she shifted to mask the telltale sign that she was awake. The arm around her waist tightened in response, and she felt a few fingers graze her bare stomach where her shirt was riding up. She didn't let herself react outwardly; she settled back into stillness. Inwardly, she was reacting. She was reacting a lot.

When he finally lifted his arm and rolled away, Jo felt the loss. She remained still until he rose and left the room, presumably to take a shower—one of the few modern conveniences available to guests at Hopkins House. Only then did she roll onto her back and stare at the ceiling for a minute. She took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. She wasn't actually ready for this level of intimacy in real life—the damn undercover assignment was just throwing off her equilibrium. At least, that's what she told herself as she sat up and got ready for the day.

Even she wasn't buying it.

* * *

Horseback riding began at ten o'clock that morning, which some guests had bemoaned as unfashionably early the night before. Jo didn't know if it was fashionable to be a night owl or just lazy and privileged, but at least the retreat planners got things rolling before one in the afternoon. Jo was glad; she needed to get moving, both for the sake of the case and as a distraction from her own internal drama.

She had been happy to discover that all of the couples were participating in the activity. She and Henry were back to suspect zero and needed to double down on their "casual" questioning efforts, and having everyone together for a few hours would make things easier. She also hadn't ridden horseback in at least fifteen years, and she was secretly looking forward to it. That is, until she saw the tack.

"Sidesaddle?" She gave the equipment a suspicious look. "I have to ride sidesaddle?"

Henry shrugged and looked at her dress. "Given the restraints of the costume, yes. All the ladies will be."

Jo snorted. "Have you seen how much fabric went into this skirt? I could easily straddle a horse." Henry's eyes went a shade darker, and she instantly regretted her use of the word 'straddle.' Memories of the way they'd woken up were too easily morphing into something a little less innocent. "Anyway," she rushed on, "I'd like to see you try it."

"I'd rather not," Henry admitted. He approached the dapple grey gelding that was being prepared and nodded to the groom before circling and examining the tack. "You'll be happy to know that this is a modern version of side saddle rather than an historically accurate one. They were a bit of a death trap, actually," he added with a frown.

She and Henry had been the first ones down to the stables, but now the other couples were beginning to filter in as well. Maybe she should have lagged behind and used the opportunity to snoop some more at the house, but Henry would have stayed with her, and being alone with him was something she was avoiding right now. He had given no indication that he knew she'd been awake before him, but Jo suspected they were both simply not talking about it, and she wanted to keep it that way. She was sure her stomach flutters were just a temporary situation brought on by the unexpected way they'd woken up, but she preferred to neglect them until they faded.

The Bandersnatches sauntered into the stable yard arm-in-arm with broad smiles on their faces. "Isn't it a glorious day for a ride?" Mrs. Bandersnatch enthused from under an alarmingly large hat. Sir Benedict was wearing a riding jacket made from the loudest fabric Henry had ever seen on a sportsman. He hoped the man's horse wouldn't bolt at the sight of him.

The Pennyworths and Gibsons weren't far behind. The head groom greeted them all and asked them to gather around the horse he was saddling for a quick introduction. The Martins joined them partway through his tutorial. After a few horse-handling basics, the men and women were grouped separately.

While the women's grooms were going over the basics of riding sidesaddle, Jo maneuvered herself next to Sophie Martin. She genuinely liked what she had seen of the Martins, but that wasn't a factor in a murder investigation. What did matter was that Sophie had injured herself on Thursday night, and Jo needed to be sure the woman really had tripped over her own hem and not, say, a freshly-murdered body.

"Does your ankle feel well enough to ride?" Jo asked.

"Oh, I'm not riding," Sophie assured her with a smile. "Even if I were back in fighting form, I'm terrified of heights. The distance from a horse's back to the ground is enough to give me cold sweats. Or the vapors, I guess; whatever refined ladies got when they were freaked out. No, I'm here to socialize." She cast a glance toward the men's group. "And to enjoy the view, of course. I have to admit, Joanna, I've been looking forward to the sight of your husband on horseback all morning. I hope you don't mind."

Jo followed her gaze over to where the men were being paired off with suitable horses, and Henry was getting to know his mount by stroking her nose and neck. She sighed to herself and reluctantly accepted that her partner was the one topic she wanted to avoid, so therefore it was the first one everyone else chose. "No, I get that," she admitted, both to Sophie and herself. "I'm pretty curious myself."

The groom asked Jo if she was ready to mount, but she wanted to continue her conversation with Sophie, so she deferred, and Caroline Gibson was the first of the women to begin. It took a lot of help from the groom, Jo noted with a touch of irritation on behalf of her sex, since both the saddle and the dress made mounting by herself awkward.

Jo was about to ask Sophie more about her injury, but just then Graham Martin began trying to mount his horse between hops and laughs as the animal drifted around under his inexpert control, and Sophie went to offer her husband teasing moral support. Jo's turn came to meet her own horse, an intelligent-looking bay mare named Lizzie. "What do you say, Lizzie?" Jo spoke gently to the creature while she stroked the velvety nose. "Ready for a ride?" The groom laced his fingers together, and she stepped up, hooking her right knee over the horn and settling into the unfamiliar position. It wasn't bad, actually, aside from too many skirts.

Henry was still standing in front of his horse. Jo was about to walk over and remind him that the horse wasn't a suspect to be interviewed when a shrill scream cut through the normal stable noises. Jo's horse started a little, but thankfully Lizzie had a steady temperament and didn't bolt. Jo immediately pinpointed the source of the scream: it was Caroline, whose horse had broken into a sudden and uncontrolled run, and she was hanging on for dear life.

Before any of the grooms could scramble for a horse, Henry threw himself into his saddle and took off at an expert gallop after the runaways. The rest of the guests rushed to the edge of the stable yard to get a better look, but even the people already mounted (Jo included) didn't attempt to follow them. Jo assumed that like her, they had nothing but basic equestrian skills, if any, and the current situation was well beyond the basics.

Henry, on the other hand, appeared to be slightly more experienced. He guided his horse into a different trajectory than Caroline's. His path to intercept her was shorter, but it was blocked by a carefully-pruned row of box hedges. Jo had a moment of panic when she wondered if Henry had looked far enough ahead to notice it, but she shouldn't have worried. With practiced ease, he leaned in and jumped the horse over the hedge. After that he was soon close enough to pull up next to Caroline, lean over, and grab her horse's reins near the bit. Both mounts drew up and stopped.

The grooms and guests all cheered as the dramatic scene came to a happy ending. Henry leapt down to help Caroline dismount, and Jo could see him moving from one side of her horse to the other, calming it while he also examined it. It still looked skittish, but the outright panic had disappeared as soon as Caroline was off its back.

Sophie came to stand next to Jo, who was still on Lizzie's back. They both watched as Henry and Caroline walked their horses back toward the stable.

"That was…" Sophie didn't finish her sentence. She didn't have to.

"Yeah. It really was." Jo watched her partner come gradually closer, and she could see that his hair was wind-tousled, and his cheeks were reddened by the fresh air and exertion. He soon caught her eye, and despite his pointed expression for her that said he had found evidence of foul play in this episode, he looked as alive as she'd ever seen him. Alive, and really, really hot.

Shit. She didn't have time for this right now.

* * *

"What did you find?" Jo asked. She and Henry had left the crowded stable yard as soon as they were able to sneak away. She had wanted to discuss the incident immediately, but as the hero of the hour Henry had been asked to recount his side of the story at least twice, as well as accept the grateful praise of everyone present, especially Caroline and her husband, Jonathan.

"I found this." He held up a small twig. Jo frowned and leaned in to look more closely. Only then did she realize it had come from one of the rose bushes. A number of very sharp thorns jutted out.

"That was under her saddle?"

He nodded. "It was cleverly placed in such a way that it didn't press into the horse's flank until well after Caroline had been lifted into the saddle. Once she shifted her weight just so, the animal was in agony."

"Any chance it got snagged there by mistake?" Jo asked, for the sake of thoroughness.

He shook his head. "Highly unlikely. The rose garden is on the opposite side of the grounds as the stables."

Jo eyed the branch thoughtfully; the surface of the stem was smooth between the thorns. "I don't suppose you brought a fingerprinting kit."

"I could manage, but it wouldn't do us much good." He held up his own gloved hands. "Every man and most of the women here are wearing gloves." He seemed to consider his next words a moment before forging ahead. "Jo, we should consider ending our charade. You need backup."

"Excuse me?" Her tone held a warning, but he either didn't notice or ignored it.

"It was meant to be you on that horse. If the killer knows who you are, this will not be the last time he or she attempts to harm you."

"I'm fine, Henry," she said in clipped tones. "Anyway, we don't know they targeted me because I'm a cop, or even targeted me at all. Maybe it was just a distraction. If we call in PD, the killer will literally see them coming a mile away, and any evidence we might have access to now will disappear."

He pressed on. "Does it matter why they targeted you? The situation is becoming more dangerous, and you are at a disadvantage."

Jo threw up her hands. "I don't believe this. It's been less than 24 hours and you've already regressed to the Stone Age."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can handle myself just fine, Doctor. As much as you may want it to be, it's not actually 1811. I'm not helpless."

Henry grimaced. She had taken his concern all wrong. "That's not what I—"

His explanation was cut short by the sound of the door latch turning. Neither of them felt inclined to explain what they were doing there or suddenly pretend they weren't in the middle of an argument. Jo quickly crouched behind a couch in the corner of the room and gestured for Henry to follow. They were barely out of sight when they heard the door swing open, followed by two sets of footsteps.

Once the door was closed again, a man and woman began a tense, half-whispered conversation.

"That was not smart, Lola. Someone could have gotten seriously hurt, and then the whole weekend would be shot."

"What are you complaining about? Dr. Morgan's heroic rescue made for an even better distraction than we expected."

"Did it work? Did you get it?"

"No. I got in, but the manuscript wasn't there."

"Are you sure you had the right room?"

"I'm sure. They are definitely the owners. They just aren't keeping it in their safe."

"Do you think they're onto us?"

"How could they be? No, I just think they're paranoid."

"After what happened on Thursday, can you blame them?"

"Don't you dare put that on me. We agreed: we both accept the risks, and we both reap the rewards."

There was the sound of voices passing in the hallway outside, and the unseen couple went silent. Once the voices were gone, the woman said, "Someone's going to notice we're missing, and we don't have the Morgans' newlywed excuse. Time to make an appearance at luncheon."

The door opened and closed again, and all was silent in the library.

After a cautious glimpse around the end of the couch, Jo and Henry emerged from their hiding place. They looked at each other as they processed this new information.

"We should get ready for luncheon as well," Henry suggested.

"We should," Jo agreed, their argument forgotten for the time being. "It's time we got to know the Pennyworths better."


	9. Chapter 9

As expected, Miss Simmons's alibi checked out. While the Brewers were being murdered, she was in a Skype meeting with half a dozen assistant directors, set and costume designers, and dialogue coaches in preparation for the Weekly Scripted Drama That Must Not Be Named.

The loss of her as a suspect wasn't nearly as discouraging when Hanson confirmed it before lunch as it had seemed the night before. Now they had a new suspect; in fact, they had two. Ian and Lucy Pennyworth, a.k.a. Ian Wright and Lola Dobmeyer. According to the conversation Henry and Jo had overheard in the library, they were directly responsible for Caroline's "incident" with the runaway horse—the horse intended for Jo. The Pennyworths had orchestrated the distraction so that Lola could search for the _Mansfield Park_ manuscript.

They had not outright confessed to murder as Jo and Henry had listened in secret, but they sounded very determined to get their hands on the manuscript. They had also alluded to _something_ that had happened on Thursday; something they could hold against each other.

Jo was quick to point out to Henry that no one had targeted her specifically, and his desire to bail out was completely alarmist and high-handed. Privately, she was beginning to worry that the longer he inhabited his nineteenth-century self, the more he was reverting to more than just outdated manners. For all his old-fashioned quirks, she had never known Henry to be sexist. She didn't like it.

For his part, Henry simply accepted their continued mission and did little to respond to her quips about his "return to the Stone Age." The truth was, he wasn't worried about her because she was a woman: he worried because she was in an unfamiliar culture and wearing a bloody great skirt. Yards and layers of fabric would impede her movements in a confrontation, not to mention block access to her weapon. She was also inexpert at operating the only "vehicles" available—Lizzie and her stablemates. Henry would have been concerned for his own safety if _he_ was the one wearing the cumbersome dress, or if he might need to escape or give chase by driving a car, which everyone insisted he was frighteningly unskilled at doing. However, under the circumstances he understood why Jo felt defensive, and he decided it was the better part of valor to simply not argue.

They tried to get the Pennyworths alone during luncheon, but the excitement at the stables was still the only topic of conversation, much to Jo's increasing annoyance. She had gone over her memories of the incident and realized that the Pennyworths had come to the stables with everyone else, but when the horse bolted, Lucy/Lola was nowhere to be seen. Jo was irritated with herself for not noticing Lola's absence at the time. She had allowed herself to get wrapped up in the moment, and in their cover. She wouldn't let it happen again. She was also getting tired of calling their suspects one name to herself, Henry, and Hanson, and a different name the rest of the time.

After lunch, the guests went their various ways. Henry and Ian Pennyworth took their continuing discussion of Austen and the military into the library, and both Jonathan Gibson and Lola joined them. The Martins went for a stroll together in the garden, and Sir Benedict promptly fell asleep in a chair in the drawing room. Jo had no desire to smile and nod and be a wallflower for the literary debate—Henry could keep an eye on both Pennyworths for now—so that left Mrs. Bandersnatch and Caroline to choose from for company. Maybe she could claim to have a headache and go "retire," a.k.a. search the Pennyworths' room.

Jo was about to feign a pained, headache-induced expression when Mrs. Bandersnatch hooked an arm through hers. "Come, Joanna, let's do some needlework!" The woman sounded giddy at the idea. "A little girl time sounds simply divine. What do you say?"

Jo fought the urge to groan out loud. Now she really did feel a headache coming on. Instead, she gave her best attempt at a smile. "Sounds delightful."

* * *

As it turned out, "needlework" was Mrs. Bandersnatch's way of saying "gossip." That suited Jo just fine; the woman was practically interviewing herself.

"I have it all worked out," said Mrs. Bandersnatch with a self-satisfied smile. Yesterday she had asked them to call her Calliope, but Jo couldn't get past her real name, Shirley, and had to remind herself that she wasn't supposed to know it.

"Not that I'm going to ruin the surprise before the ball—my lips are sealed," Shirlliope insisted. Jo noted that the woman's lips showed no signs of sealing anytime soon. "I believe I've correctly paired every guest with their AustenChat username, as well as what they've brought for the Exhibition." She clapped and giggled in a way rarely seen in a 67-year-old housewife. "Isn't this fun? It's like a big game of Clue." Her look turned sly. "I will reveal one tidbit: I accuse Mr. Pennyworth, in the Library, with the Manuscript!"

Jo glossed over the strangeness of that crime scene image—the manuscript was old, fragile, and unbound, and would make a bad murder weapon—and skipped to Shirley's belief that the Pennyworths were the ones who had brought the manuscript. The Pennyworths, who were Jo's main murder suspects. Jo wondered how Shirley came to that conclusion.

Caroline beat her to the question. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, I overheard Mrs. Pennyworth let it slip that she is shades-of-pemberley. Of course, we all know that shades-of-pemberley and CrystalBluePersuasion only joined about a month ago."

Jo nodded along like it was obvious. "Of course."

Caroline picked up the line of thought. "CrystalBlue was the one who first suggested that we add an Exhibition to our house party."

Shirley/Calliope nodded knowingly. "If there's one thing I've learned about Austenites, it's that we love a nice, polite bragfest. Isn't it obvious? The Pennyworths recently acquired the manuscript, and they were just dying to show it off." She leaned back in her chair like she had just completed a masterful checkmate. "Not that I mind. Sir Benedict and I were happy to bring our toys for the chance to see theirs. Imagine, being one of the first people to see it! We can die happy with those bragging rights."

"Don't be silly, Calliope!" Caroline replied. "Even an original Austen manuscript isn't worth dying for. Near-death experiences are nothing to joke about," she added sagely, milking her horse ride for all it was worth.

Jo silently pondered how to incorporate this new information into her case. So, the Pennyworths had orchestrated the Exhibition themselves. Shirley believed they had done it in order to show off, but Jo knew they had more nefarious motives. The Brewers had already paid for this retreat and that stupid manuscript with their lives, and the weekend wasn't over yet.

* * *

"I will allow that the militia is treated primarily as a source of eligible men in most of her novels, but you can't deny that there is an element of pro-Nelson nationalism underpinning it."

Ian Pennyworth finished his statement with a flourish, and Henry turned from him back to Jonathan Gibson. The two men had been volleying back and forth with increasing fervor for the last twenty minutes, to the point where Henry and Lucy (Lola) had dropped out of the conversation and simply started watching the debate like a Wimbledon match.

Gibson narrowed his eyes at Pennyworth and straightened in his chair, obviously preparing to deliver a decisive shot. "I usually hesitate to throw this around in conversation, but I am actually related to the Austen family." The look on his face didn't say 'hesitation' so much as 'deep and defining pride,' if Henry was any judge.

Pennyworth's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Truly?"

Jonathan nodded. "The Gibsons are descended from Jane's sister-in-law's family." He brought his point home. "I have spent years poring over family documents, and I can tell you that as far back as the Napoleonic Wars, both the Gibsons and the Austens had a much more complex view of the military than the blind nationalism you are suggesting."

Henry and Lola turned back to Ian, who raised his hands in polite surrender. "Who am I to gainsay primary sources?"

"But tell us more about this family connection!" Lola exclaimed. "I can't believe you've managed to keep it to yourself all weekend. I would have been crowing from the rooftops."

"Oh, there's not much to tell," Jonathan deferred.

Despite this statement, Henry discovered that "not much" took the better part of two hours to tell. It was a rather fascinating family tree, and Henry even recognized the names of a few people he had known, but with both Pennyworths listening in rapt attention, he wondered whether Jonathan's revelation was putting him and Caroline in greater danger—especially if his old "family documents" included the manuscript.

* * *

"So the Pennyworths are after the manuscript, they may have killed the Brewers, and now they might target the Gibsons next."

Henry nodded in agreement at Jo's summary of how things stood and commented, "House parties usually included some kind of intrigue, but this retreat has an especially high degree of authenticity in that regard."

"They should mention that on the website." Jo held her arms out slightly in a questioning gesture. "Well, how do I look?" The afternoon had been spent in their separate discussions, then later with passing what they had learned on to Hanson for follow-up. Now it was eight o'clock, and after nearly two hours of bathing, primping, and dressing, it was time for the ball.

Henry scrutinized her from hair to slippers. She wore an evening gown of rich yellow silk that divided at the waist to reveal a paler yellow underskirt. Scallops of fine lace lined the low, scooping neckline, and strings of tiny pearl-like beads ran down the divided front seams in a wavy pattern that echoed the lace. The sleeves were probably what Jo would call "puffy," but Henry thought they were very elegant. Her hair was drawn up in a more elaborate version of her up-swept style from yesterday, and a series of loops and curls were piled on her head and here and there cascaded down to brush her cheeks and neck. His eyes worked their way back to her face, and he smiled. "You look incredibly lovely," he finally stated. "However, you're missing something."

"Something like pockets?" she retorted. "Am I really supposed to dangle this fan from my wrist all night? And there's no way my phone is fitting in this particular bodice."

"Not pockets," he said, and picked up a flat box off the dresser behind him. "This." He opened the box to reveal a blue pendant surrounded by small diamonds (or so they appeared) in a silver setting; the effect was simple but very elegant.

Jo fingered the necklace with one gloved hand. "Henry, it's beautiful," she said honestly. "Where did you get it?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Abe had it in the shop. It's only costume jewelry, but very well done for all that. I don't think Miss Simmons will find anything to object to." He lifted the necklace out and set the box aside. "May I?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," she said, and turned her back to him. She felt him close behind her as he lifted his arms over her head. The next moment the pendant was resting over her heart with surprising weight, and Henry's deft fingers were fastening the clasp at her neck.

When he spoke again she could feel his breath gently tickling the hairs at the base of her neck, and she repressed a shiver.

"I have a confession," he said, his voice pitched low at such close range.

She turned her head only slightly. "What's that?"

"I suggested this color to Mrs. Yang for your gown, and fortunately she had one on hand. I had a feeling it would suit you, as would the necklace." He still spoke into the back of her neck. "To be honest, you don't merely look lovely; you look breathtaking."

That's how Henry felt: a bit breathless at the sight of her. The necklace was fastened and ready, but his hands still lingered at the base of her neck, his thumbs moving ever so slightly over the skin along her spine.

Jo realized her eyes had slid shut at the gentle touch, and she forced them open. She turned to face him, their bodies closer than usual. His eyes looked the same as his hands had felt: gentle and strangely intimate. Not exactly seductive, but like he was truly looking at her. Considering all that he had seen in his long life, and all the people he had known, she suddenly wondered how he saw her, and how she fit in.

She broke eye contact first, needing to divert attention from herself, and she took her turn to examine _h_ _is_ costume for the evening. She noticed how his blue waistcoat matched the pendant nicely. Not only that, but it was shot through with subtle yellow embroidery that perfectly complemented her own dress. That observation broke the strange spell between them for her, and she gave him an amused look.

"Any chance you made a few suggestions to Mrs. Yang for yourself, too?"

He gave her a lop-sided grin of acknowledgement. "She and I share an appreciation for a well-matched set."

Jo chuckled a little. "Dr. Henry Morgan: medical examiner, immortal enigma, and high-class personal stylist."

"I choose to take that as a compliment."

She made a show of giving a final straightening to his jacket, shirt collar and cravat, as if they weren't carefully arranged already, and she nodded. "You'll do."

When her eyes returned to his face, she found that he had an expression that said he had something to say, but he didn't know how to begin. Curiosity and nerves were flip-flopping inside her at the question of what he was thinking, but the sudden buzzing of her phone on the dressing table spared her the answer. She picked it up and said, "Hey, Mike. What have you got?"

Henry was only a little disappointed at the interruption; the thing he'd wanted to tell her would keep. He watched with curiosity as her eyebrows raised slightly in response to whatever Hanson was telling her. "Really? Well that _is_ interesting. Thanks." She hung up and looked down briefly at the front of her dress; she seemed to consider her own cleavage for a moment before shaking her head and offering the phone to Henry. "Do you mind?"

Henry smirked and accepted the device, slipping it inside his breast pocket. His jacket was close-fitting, but he did have a little more room for concealment than Jo did tonight. "What did Hanson say?"

"The insurance company finally came through with a full report, and guess who the owners of the manuscript are."

Henry recognized that as a lead-in to unexpected news. "Is it not the Gibsons?"

"Nope." Jo paused for effect. "It's the Martins."

"George and Sophie? Good for them." They seemed like genuinely good-hearted people, and Henry was pleased for them.

"Which means we should keep a close eye on them for their own safety," she added.

"Are you sure we shouldn't call for backup?" Henry ventured.

"Not yet." Jo's response was calm but firm. "The distractions of tonight will give us the perfect opportunity to look for evidence against the Pennyworths. We should continue as planned."

"In that case," he bowed formally to her, "Miss Martinez, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the ball?"

She gave a half shrug. "Isn't that sort of a given?"

He sensed a serious current beneath the tease and answered earnestly. "One thing I hope I will never do, Jo, is take you for granted. In this century or any other."

 _Okay, good answer._ She gave him a genuinely graceful nod. "In that case, the honor is mine, Henry." She placed a gloved hand in his as he gestured her through the bedroom door, and they proceeded down the grand staircase arm-in-arm.

* * *

 **A/N: Have I told you lately how great you all are? Because you are. You are encouraging, and supportive, and great. Mwah.**

 **Now that I've buttered you up, I'm letting you know that I'll be out of town for a little while. It's the kind of vacation with no internet and no laptop—heck, I'll be lucky to have a flush toilet half the time. This means that my next update won't come for at least three weeks, but rest assured! I will pick up with Henry, Jo, and the suspicious goings-on at Hopkins House as soon as I am able.**

 **Thanks again, and see you on the flip side! ~pinky**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello, dear readers! Thank you for your patience during what was a much longer hiatus than I anticipated. Do you remember where we left off? Yeah, me neither. ;) It had been so long, I had to re-read my own story before continuing.**

 **We now return to Hopkins House and the night of the ball...**

* * *

Jo entered the ballroom on Henry's arm to discover the room transformed. She had been in here during the house tour on Friday, and she had even assessed exits and sight lines out of habit, but her impression was mostly of a large, sparsely furnished room with a large fireplace on one wall and French doors lining the other.

Even with her detective's powers of observation, she barely recognized it now. For one thing, it was lit by hundreds of candles in chandeliers above, sconces along the walls, and candelabras on tables, and everything seemed to be glowing. For another thing, the room was filled with dozens of unfamiliar faces.

"Who the hell are all these people?" She muttered the question through the polite smile she wore for everyone who had turned their direction at the announcement of "Dr. and Mrs. Morgan."

"Five couples are enough for a nice dinner party, but not nearly enough for a ball," Henry replied. "These are probably hired extras, if you will, to make up the numbers."

"Please tell me they don't all know about the manuscript." She smiled and raised a hand in greeting to the Pennyworths, who were across the room chatting with a few "extras" and sipping punch. "Right now we have a solid pair of suspects with those two, but Hanson will never let us live it down if we make him track down all these people's records while we're schmoozing all night."

"I doubt they _all_ know about it." Jo shot an unamused look at her partner, but he merely gave a small shrug. "Like I said—"

"—there are no secrets at house parties. I remember." Jo spotted Sophie and Graham Martin weaving their way toward her and Henry and smiled genuinely in acknowledgement. To Henry, she added, "For their sakes, I hope we're watching the right suspects."

"So do I," Henry agreed.

The Martins came to stand beside them, and they all exchanged handshakes and polite cheek kisses.

"Oh, Joanna!" Sophie exclaimed. "You are a vision!"

Jo smiled a little self-consciously. "Thank you. You look lovely as well."

If there was such a thing as a polite snort, Sophie gave one. "That's sweet of you to say, dear, but isn't there a mirror in the Spare Room?" She gave her husband a nudge. "Graham, tell her."

Graham chuckled. "This is a test, isn't it? All right, challenge accepted." He turned to Jo and bowed. "Mrs. Morgan, you are by far the loveliest woman in the room. Your husband" —he deferred to Henry— "is a very lucky man. Almost as lucky as I am myself." He turned to his wife, took her hand, and kissed it. "How was that, dear?"

"A-plus work, darling." They grinned at each other, delighted by what seemed to be a private joke between them.

"Now that I've declared my undying love and devotion to my wife," Mr. Martin said, turning to Jo, "would you do me the honor?" He held out one hand.

"Very smooth," Jo said with a smile, "but you don't even know if I can dance."

"You could break all ten of my toes and I would still ask you," he persisted.

Jo looked at Henry and shrugged with a little smile as she placed one gloved hand in Graham's. What better way to keep an eye out for threats than stay literally right by his side for a little while?

"Like you said, Joanna," Sophie commented with an indulgent eye roll, "smooth."

"What was smooth?" Caroline Gibson approached their group with polite curiosity.

"Mr. Martin has very deftly swept my wife away right under my nose," Henry commented as he and Graham exchanged a good-natured smile and nod, and the other man began to lead Jo to where several other couples were lining up for a country dance.

"In that case, perhaps you're free to ask me?" Caroline fished. "I know this is terribly forward, but the evening wouldn't be complete without a dance with my weekend hero."

Henry looked at Sophie, who would be left alone; it wasn't good manners, or safe for her if the killer had figured out she and her husband owned the manuscript.

Sophie deferred genially. "Oh, don't worry about me, Doctor. Go dance, I insist. I enjoy people watching."

Henry glanced around and saw that their prime suspects, the Pennyworths, were both deep in conversation with Caroline's husband, for the moment not ransacking rooms or lying in wait. Jo caught his eye from where she was lining up for the dance. She had heard Caroline's request and gave a subtle shrug of agreement: _Sure, why not?_

Henry turned to Caroline and bowed politely. "In that case, I would be honored." He took her hand and they joined the parallel lines of dancers just as the music began.

Henry had not performed a country dance in 200 years, but thankfully he still remembered the steps. He and Caroline moved out of contact for a time as the pattern progressed. When they came back together, she smiled and said, "Joanna's necklace is quite lovely. My compliments on your discerning taste." Henry inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Caroline went on. "I take it that's your entry in the Exhibition later?"

"It's only a recreation, I'm afraid, though a very good one. Not contemporary to the period."

His dance partner gave him a funny look, but the dance sent them in separate directions before she could say any more.

When they came back together, Graham and Jo had were next to them in the dance formation.

"Has 'janefanboy' here been taking good care of you?" Graham asked Caroline with a wink to Henry.

"Don't give him the satisfaction, Henry," Jo answered. "He's been trying to pry our usernames out of me since the music started." She gave her dance partner a mock stern look. "You'll find out later with everyone else." Henry suddenly realized that if they didn't catch the killer by the end of the night, they would need a quick explanation as to who they really were, since everyone would know they weren't AustenChat members.

Graham shrugged as they all spun off in different directions. "Can't blame a fellow for trying."

When Caroline and Henry had taken a few steps away from them, she said in confidence, "Don't worry, I won't tell him."

"Won't tell him what?"

"That you're not janefanboy."

Henry was instantly on alert, but he masked it by leaning toward her with a conspiratorial look. "I never said that I was—but what makes you so certain?"

Caroline seemed to hesitate a moment, and she glanced around before answering, "Because I know him in real life. He and his wife were supposed to be here this weekend, but they never showed. That's why there was a space open for you and Joanna at the last minute."

This was news to Henry. Caroline and Jonathan Gibson were the one couple supposedly using their real names this weekend, but Hanson's research had not uncovered any connection to the Brewers. Henry pretended he was fishing for a juicy bit of gossip. "And here I thought AustenChat was anonymous. How did you manage to find them out?"

"Oh, we've known them for years. Jonathan knew him professionally, and then at one of these role play events we ran into each other, and our secrets were out." She smiled. "We all agreed not to mention it at work. It's hard enough for the guys being male nurses; they didn't want any more flak from people for being Austenites."

"Well, I appreciate your discretion about Joanna and I," Henry said. "Keeping people in suspense is half the fun." The music continued, but Henry's attention was no longer on the dance. He was counting down the minutes until the dance would be over and he could tell Jo what he had learned.

* * *

"The Gibsons knew our victims?" Jo asked. "We haven't found any evidence of that connection."

Henry had reclaimed his "bride," and they found a somewhat private corner where they could stand and sip punch while Henry shared his new discovery.

"Even if they were connected in real life," he said, "how does this relate to the Pennyworths and their pursuit of the manuscript, if at all?"

"I need to call Hanson and tell him to dig deeper into the Gibsons." Henry took the hint and glanced around before pulling her phone out of his breast pocket and handing to her. She did her best to hide the contraband device in the folds of her skirt with one hand, and she turned toward the nearest door. "I'll be right back. If anyone asks, I'm…powdering something."

As soon as Jo was out of sight, Henry scanned the ballroom and assessed the situation. The Martins were preparing to dance together, and Ian and Jonathan were still deep in conversation, but Lola looked like she had lost interest in whatever subject still had them enthralled. She was slapping her reticule against her other palm in a bored gesture.

Henry saw his opportunity to learn more about their suspects, so he crossed the room and asked a very grateful Lola to dance.

* * *

Henry spotted Jo as soon as she re-entered the ballroom, chatting with a young extra. He was wearing a passable cravat but too much hair product, and from the hopeful look on the young man's face, he would be happy to stand in for this lady's absent partner in whatever ways might be necessary. Henry had intended to tell Jo right away what he had gotten from Lola, but it could wait a few minutes. There was something else he suddenly needed to do first.

He strode the dozen steps separating them to stand before her, and the young dandy paused mid-sentence in whatever flattery he was spinning. "I believe the next dance is mine, darling."

He bowed low, then looked up to find her eyes and hold the gaze as he straightened. Even he recognized that he was staking a claim, but he extended his hand as a question, not a demand. After a moment, Jo answered by quirking a tolerant smile at him and placing her hand in his.

"So it is."

Together they found an empty spot on the dance floor, leaving the dandy behind to find another lonely heart to charm. Jo surreptitiously handed her phone back to Henry for safekeeping, and a moment later, the musicians began to play the lilting opening strains of a waltz. Henry placed his left hand on the small of her back, bringing their bodies closer but not too close, and she rested her right hand on his shoulder, their other hands coming together as well. He hadn't even asked if she knew how to waltz, but as he stepped out and guided them both into motion in time with the music, she followed his lead effortlessly.

For a little while, they just danced. Henry realized this was the first time they had ever danced together. There had been dancing the night they went to hear Hanson sing at the karaoke bar, if one could call it dancing, but Jo had still been with Isaac then. Henry had contented himself with watching her laugh and put her arms around the entrepreneur as Isaac had dipped her low, glad to see her happy even if he wasn't the cause.

Now she and Isaac had gone their separate ways, and she was here in his arms instead. The candlelight was shining in her eyes, on the curls in her hair, on the curve of her neck, and it was having an intoxicating effect on him. If he was being honest with himself, it wasn't just the candlelight. He couldn't help but think of how it had felt to wake up that morning with her in his arms. This might not be their real life, or even the right century, but moments like this did not feel like a ruse.

"Hanson said we're good to go with a search warrant for the Pennyworths' room. We should try and sneak away after this dance."

Her statement broke him out of his quiet study of her, and it took him a moment to process what she'd said. "Yes, we should sneak away."

Jo gave him a bemused look but didn't comment. "Did you learn anything new while I was gone?"

That seemed to wake him up. "Yes—in fact, I got something very useful from Lola when we were dancing."

"Oh, you danced with Lola too?" Jo teased. "The Hero of Hopkins House really gets around."

"That's just good manners at a ball," Henry said, unfazed. "But please note that I saved the waltz for you."

He spun her into a turn with extra flair, and she laughed. "I'm honored. You know," she added, "I'm a little surprised you danced this close in 1811. Seems pretty scandalous."

"Oh, it was," Henry confirmed. "Although 1811 is a bit early, if memory serves. The couple waltz was only just becoming accepted when I began my hiatus from polite society."

Jo smiled at his choice of words and looked around to indicate the bygone opulence around them. "Welcome back to the Good Life, Henry Morgan. How does it feel?"

He didn't consciously draw her a little closer, or pitch his voice a little lower—not consciously—when he smiled and said, "Right now, it feels very good indeed."

Jo had no response. She just met his gaze, and they kept dancing, and she didn't look away.

* * *

There was something she was supposed to be doing, Jo was sure. Something important, and time-sensitive, and completely unrelated to dancing with Henry. It was probably related to the murderer who was somewhere in the room with them, she thought dryly. Even so, this dance felt important in a different way, like it exerted its own strange kind of gravity.

 _It's only a dance_ , she told herself. Their bodies were barely even touching by twenty-first century standards. However, that didn't seem to matter to her stomach, which was flipping in one direction, and her head, which was spinning ever so slightly in the other. Jo had not ballroom danced in a long time, but Henry led well, and maybe their experience as work partners made it easier to read each other as dance partners. That said, she couldn't imagine moving so effortlessly with Hanson. With Henry it came naturally.

That still scared her a little bit.

Ironically, the thought that dancing with Henry was Right with a capital 'R', maybe even inevitable, was exactly what she needed to jolt her out of it.

"We really should get back to the case," she said, forcing her voice into business tones. "The NYPD isn't paying us to dance."

She was secretly gratified to see Henry try unsuccessfully to hide his disappointment before he smiled in acceptance. "It's true that this has been an unusual assignment. Rarely does my job include holding a beautiful woman twice in one day."

It took Jo a moment to process that, and when she did she stiffened a little. "What do you mean twice?" she asked, but she knew the answer: he knew that she'd been awake that morning, and he was calling her on it.

Henry heard the edge in her voice and backtracked, trying to salvage a moment that had been heading in such a different direction a few seconds ago. "I mean, I've been privileged to dance with both you and Caroline this evening, not to mention Lola."

"No. That's not what you meant." All teasing and lightness were gone.

Now it was his turn to stiffen. "Oh? Then what _did_ I mean?"

He was practically double-dog daring her, so she plunged ahead. "You meant that when I woke up this morning, you were wrapped around me. Or did I just _dream_ that?" Her tone was bordering on sarcastic, daring him to claim that she routinely dreamed of waking up with him. "If you knew I was awake, why didn't you say anything?" _And why are you saying it now_ , she thought to herself.

"I was trying to be a gentleman," he said in a voice that was straining to stay low. "I didn't want to embarrass you with what was obviously a subconscious act for both of us."

"Really, Henry? Was it?" Part of her mind was trying to hit the brakes on her mouth, reminding her that waking up with Henry had actually been lovely, but the part of her mind in control right now had days—truthfully, months—of unspoken frustration to vent.

He volleyed it back to her. "Alright then, why don't you tell me what happened?"

She huffed in frustration. "I don't know what to make of you sometimes. You're old-fashioned about so many things, and I get that, but you're conveniently modern when it comes to women. I've seen you work the immortal charm more than once for the sake of a hook-up, and that's all they ever are. Is that what I'll be too? Maybe this morning you saw the chance to cop a feel, and you took it. What happens in 1811 stays in 1811, right?"

They had still been going through the motions of the waltz until then, but at her statement Henry stopped abruptly and removed both his hands like she'd given him an electric jolt. He looked a little shocked, and a little hurt. "Is that really what you think happened?"

Jo cursed to herself. She barely ever spoke in anger like that. Now she had insulted him and hurt him, and it hadn't helped to alleviate her confusion and doubt at all. How had a simple waltz come to this?

She sighed. "No, Henry, I'm sorry. I just—I've had enough dancing around for one night."

She turned away and strode through the nearest open door. She needed some air, and some normal, and a bad guy to catch. She needed something real, and Henry was anything but.

Then again, maybe what was happening between them was _too_ real, and that was the problem. Either way, she needed to go be a detective for a while.

* * *

 _A/N: Now that I'm back at it, expect regular (1-2 per week) updates until it's finished. I currently anticipate 14 chapters total, but who knows? Chapters, including this one, keep eating the Eat Me cake and outgrowing themselves. Hence the fight that was supposed to be mid-chapter ended up dangling there at the end. Sorry...kind of. ;)_


	11. Chapter 11

Henry stood motionless until Jo had left the ballroom. A quick glance around told him that all of the guests and most of the extras had witnessed their little scene. Even though he and Jo had been speaking too quietly to be overheard by even the most curious of gossips, their body language must have screamed "LOVERS' QUARREL" loud and clear.

He tried to arrange his features to convey "just a little misunderstanding, nothing to worry about." The sympathetic looks he was getting from other guests, mostly the men, suggested that he had achieved closer to "I am in such deep shit," but that would have to do.

He followed Jo's path out the door, and wisely no one stopped him. Only a few people were lingering in the hallway, enjoying the relative cool and quiet away from the dancers and drinkers. Henry scanned the space but didn't see his partner, so he stopped to take a deep breath and think. If Jo wanted to escape, where would she go? Their room? The gardens? No, she wouldn't hide. Or more accurately, she would hide in her work. They were very alike in that way.

With that thought, he knew exactly where to find her. He walked as casually as he could manage away from the ballroom, and once he was out of sight, he strode quickly to the staircase.

* * *

 _County Somerset, 1811_

The evening of the ball, Rosa Martin was a vision in silk and lace, and she danced every set superbly, but none of that explained why Henry could hardly look away from her.

His attention was riveted to the woman who, the night before, had told him that their host and possibly her own father were involved in the slave trade. She had followed that revelation by playing a sonata, singing a lovely folk air, and being so praised and surrounded by admirers that Henry had found no opportunity to enquire further.

Now it was finally time to claim his dance, and they took their places together for the cotillion. It wasn't a form that lent itself to private moments, so they were limited to small talk and pleasantries until the dance was finished. When the last chord sounded and all the dancers bowed and curtsied, Henry accompanied Rosa through the French doors to enjoy the cool air on the balcony. They found a spot that was visible enough for propriety yet private enough that they wouldn't be overheard.

"Something tells me you have a plan for how to proceed," Henry began without preamble. "How can I help?"

Rosa nodded. "Lord Summersby conducts most of his business from this house during the summer. There must be something in his study that will prove what he is up to. If I am lucky, it will also show that my father does not know what his partner is doing."

"And you would like me to help you search?" Henry ventured.

"Yes, but that is not all." She looked up to meet his eyes. "I am not a fool. Even if I do find the evidence I need, I know that the accusations of a woman will mean very little. I am asking you to go to your father and convince him to make this travesty known."

Henry took a long breath. "My father would never approve of such a deplorable practice, but do you understand what you're asking? To speak against two such powerful men in his profession could have very serious consequences. It could ruin him."

"I know." Rosa looked grim, but she didn't back down.

"What about _your_ father?" Henry asked. "Are you willing see your own family ruined? Maybe not financially, but there would be a terrible scandal. You would be ostracized."

"What does that matter to me?" Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. "Regardless of what people say, I am not _la primadonna_ desperate to be adored." Color flooded her cheeks, and Henry realized he had inadvertently struck a nerve. She went on, "What is social ruin compared to thousands of souls treated like cattle? I know what I am willing to do, Dr. Morgan. What about you?"

Before Henry could say anything in his defense, she turned on one heel and strode back into the ballroom, sweeping past anyone who tried to engage her for a dance and disappearing through the opposite doors.

* * *

 _Hopkins House_

Jo was crouched in front of a door in the darkened hallway, her dress billowing around her and shimmering with a warm yellow glow in the light of the candle she'd brought from their room. She was so intent on her task that she almost didn't hear the footsteps approaching. When she did, she stood and quickly moved her body to block what she was doing, but when Henry appeared around the corner out of the shadows, she gave an exasperated sigh and went back to work. She repositioned the lock pick and wrench in the keyhole of the Pennyworths' door and deftly maneuvered them.

Henry came to stand next to her. "Jo, you don't need to do this."

"Yes, Henry, I do. This is why we're here, remember?" A satisfying 'click' announced that she had succeeded, and she turned the handle and crossed the threshold into the Pennyworths' room.

Henry glanced behind him, but the hallway was quiet. He grabbed the candle from the hall table and followed her inside.

"I do remember why we're here," Henry continued. "I only meant that you didn't need to pick the lock."

Jo whirled around to see Henry holding a key in front of him. He couldn't help looking a little self-satisfied. "After we danced, Lola asked me to hold her reticule while she got punch. I happily obliged."

"You could have mentioned that." Jo shook her head a little, but she didn't want to argue anymore. "Never mind. Let's see what we can find."

Henry placed the candle on a dresser, and it cast a small but steady light around the room. They began opening drawers and wardrobe doors, searching silently. Their fight in the ballroom was fresh in both their minds, and the chance to focus on something else suited them fine.

After a few minutes, Jo was the first to break the silence. "Did you learn anything else from Lola that I should know about?"

"No, nothing of consequence. She didn't mention the Exhibition or speculate on usernames." He frowned in thought. "That in itself is notable. Those were the only topics Caroline and the Martins could talk about all evening."

Jo paused what she was doing. Without looking up she said, "Maybe Lola wanted to avoid the biggest thing on her mind because she was afraid of revealing something she wasn't ready to say."

Henry looked up from his search of an end table at that blatant double meaning. Jo was very intentionally not meeting his eye, which told him she knew exactly what she'd said. The tension and frustration from their argument loosened its hold on him.

"I hope she knows that I never intended to pressure her by anything I said or did, consciously or not. She can share as much as she's ready to in her own time. And I certainly would never use her callously. She means too much…to the investigation. She meaning Lola, obviously," he added.

"Obviously." A small, dry smile crept onto her face. Jo was not ready to kiss and make up, so to speak—the shifting ground beneath their relationship combined with this weird weekend still had her feeling a little unsteady. Despite that, he was still the same Henry, whatever that meant. He might be an immortal bundle of contradictions, but he was her partner, and her friend, and the man who had coaxed her out of the hole Sean left when he died. She trusted him.

She turned from where she was crouched in front of an empty drawer to face him. "Henry, about this morning. I— hold on." When she looked across the room from this angle, there was a faint reflection of candlelight under the mattress. Jo followed the glint and pulled out a laptop. She set it on the bed and opened it. Henry came around the bed to stand next to her.

"Can you unlock it?" he asked.

"Let me see." Jo tapped a button to wake it up, and she smiled. "We're in luck—no password." She clicked the user profile "miss shady," and an email inbox appeared. Henry read along with her as she opened a few of the most recent messages.

"Huh."

They said it nearly in unison, then looked each other in the eyes for the first time since the ballroom. In that instant, they were partners again, the matching glints in their eyes sparked by what they'd just discovered.

"They weren't trying to steal the manuscript," Henry began, and Jo finished the thought.

"They were trying to scoop the story." She turned back to the screen and continued reading. "There was a reward offered by an online lit magazine called _Austenalia_ for high-res photos of the Mansfield Park manuscript. Lola has been trading messages with someone on staff there confirming that if she and Ian email the photos to him before any public announcement is made, he will deposit $20,000 in her account."

"Rumors must have gotten out that the manuscript exists," Henry said. "Even newly discovered material from that era is beyond copyright law. _Austenalia_ would have the literary scoop of the decade if they were the first to publish a copy, or even sell access to high-quality scans."

"Henry, look at this." Jo opened an earlier email with attachment. "This is a copy of the full insurance rider, complete with names. They must have bribed someone in the insurance office. Look at the date."

Henry leaned in to read the top of the message. "Both Lola and Ian received this on Tuesday— two days before the murder. They've known all along that the Martins own the manuscript."

Jo furrowed her brow. "Our strongest theory has been that the Brewers were killed to cover up a burglary gone wrong. If they knew the Brewers weren't the owners, why would the Pennyworths involve them at all?"

"There must be another factor at work," Henry mused. "Perhaps—"

Jo cut him off with a quick hand motion when a pair of familiar voices echoed in the hallway: the Pennyworths were coming back. Jo shut the laptop and shoved it back under the mattress. Henry blew out the candle, hoping that the occupants wouldn't notice the smell of fresh wax or the extra candlestick, and he followed Jo to the door. A peek outside showed that Ian and Lola were not past the corner yet, but they would be any second. Jo and Henry exited and shut the door quietly behind them, but not quietly enough.

"Did you hear something?" Ian's voice sounded from the shadows, and the footsteps sped up. The flicker of an approaching candle grew brighter, and a moment later Ian and Lola appeared from around the corner. Henry and Jo were in shadow, but they were still visible.

"Who's there?" Lola demanded. "What are you doing by our room?"

Henry had Lola's key in his hand, but it was too late to lock the door and cover their tracks. Too late, unless he could cover the cover-up.

Before he had time to overthink it, or think much at all, he turned to face Jo straight-on, cupped one hand on the back of her head, gripped her waist, and pressed her back against the door.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Henry, what—?" was as far as she got.

"Please don't hold this against me," he murmured in a rush, and lowered his mouth over hers.

* * *

Henry was kissing her. Well, kind of. His mouth was covering hers, and she could feel the heat of his body pressed against her from her chest down to where his legs were tangled in her skirts. By all rights, it should have been an intense, toe-curling kiss—but it wasn't. His lips weren't even moving, and neither were hers. The one part of him that was moving was the hand at her waist. In her surprise-addled brain, it took her a long moment to realize he wasn't caressing her: he was using her as cover.

The key he had lifted from Lola's reticule was in his hand, and behind her back he was maneuvering it into the keyhole, turning it slowly enough to mask the tumblers notching back into place. It was quick thinking, actually. She probably wouldn't hold it against him.

When the final tumbler made a louder 'click' than the rest, Jo moaned dramatically into Henry's mouth to cover it up. He pulled the key out of the lock and slid it into his jacket pocket; their bodies were so close that in the dim light, the movement could pass as a caress.

Henry moaned in response, low and resonant. He probably meant it as "thanks for covering, partner," but as the tenor of his voice vibrated through them both, it shook something loose. She relaxed into the embrace, and she could feel him doing the same. The next moment, they weren't just kind of kissing anymore.

His lips began to move over hers, varying the pressure and gently exploring her mouth. He was tentative at first, but when she responded in kind, he grew bolder. The hand at her waist tightened, and his other hand spread wide through the up-swept hair at the base of her neck to hold her mouth firmly against his.

For her part, the hands that she had pressed against his chest in surprise now relaxed into the embrace. One hand traced a path down his lapel and around his waist to his back. The other hand mirrored his own and began to restlessly caress his neck and the hair at the base of his skull. She'd always suspected that his hair would be soft and oh, it really was.

Encouraged by her response, his tongue traced her bottom lip, and she teased back with her own. In unison they angled their mouths to deepen the kiss, tongues boldly questing and tangling as they explored this new territory. Jo heard a second, more urgent moan from Henry—or maybe it was from her; she wasn't sure. She arched up in response and he leaned in as if they were alone in the house, and maybe in the tri-state area.

At that point, there was a very pointed throat clearing that reminded them that they weren't.

"Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds, but that's our door you're scandalizing."

Jo gave a little jolt; so did Henry. Their arms were still wrapped around each other, but their faces separated enough to see the startled look in each other's eyes. Jo was pretty sure she looked more startled than Henry. He looked surprised by what had happened, but there was still a smolder banked beneath.

She wasn't smoldering. She was kicking herself for losing sight of the case and getting lost in her own personal issues, getting lost in her own partner, and his lips, and that hair, and those incredible eyes—okay, maybe she was smoldering too. He was watching her closely now to see how she'd react, and his gaze saw far too much of her. It always had. Surely he could see that besides smoldering, she was also panicking.

She put her hands back on his chest and pushed lightly, and he took a step back. With barely a look at the Pennyworths, and for the second time that night, she fled the scene.


	12. Chapter 12

Henry made a mumbled apology to the Pennyworths, something about newlyweds and feelings running high. The couple smirked, and Ian made a crack about other things running high, but at least they didn't seem suspicious.

Jo had disappeared in the direction of the back stairs, and Henry decided he had better give her some space. Truth be told, he could use a moment to collect himself as well. He made a distracted bow to Ian and Lola and returned to the ballroom.

He kept himself to the edges of the room, looking for the key players in this weekend drama. The Bandersnatches were laughing and dancing, or trying to dance, but their senses of balance were rather the worse for drink. Miss Simmons was also a few drinks in and flirting with an extra, apparently having decided to enjoy herself for one last Hopkins House ball, murder investigation or not. Graham Martin was chatting with a few other extras. Henry tried to find Sophie Martin in the crowd, but she wasn't in sight. The Pennyworths might be where he left them at their room, or they might be continuing their search for the manuscript, and he and Jo had not completely eliminated them as suspects yet.

Henry took a step in Graham's direction, meaning to enquire as to the whereabouts of his wife, but a voice called him up short.

"I hope everything is alright between you and Joanna. Did you manage to catch up with her?"

He turned to find Caroline Gibson giving him a sympathetic smile. "Yes, everything is fine—thank you for your concern. Just a little misunderstanding."

"Well, with the way you two look at each other, I'm sure it won't last long," Caroline assured him. "I just hope you don't miss the Exhibition while you're 'making up.' "

Henry didn't mention that the kind of "making up" she was implying was currently part of the problem. Instead, he fixed on the other topic she had brought up. "You seem to be a woman in the know when it comes to AustenChat and the Exhibition," he said with what he hoped was a charming smile.

"I know a few things," she answered coyly. "Everyone here knows _something_ , Doctor."

"Yes, but you more than most. You seemed very interested in Joanna's necklace, for example."

She leaned in. "There's no need to keep pretending on that front, Henry. Everyone brought things of value. Why should you hide yours?"

Henry decided that the time for caution was past. "You know, I've always had a fondness for military pieces—Napoleonic blades especially. I heard a rumor that one of the AustenChat members owns one. Is it here this weekend?"

Caroline's expression shuttered, and her conspiratorial smile turned to merely a polite one. "I've heard that rumor too, but I don't know. I don't know who it belongs to." She looked around at the other faces in the room, her smile widening to hide her sudden nervousness. "Well, you should really go and find your bride. I won't keep you any longer."

Henry was about to follow her rapidly retreating form and press her for whatever she was obviously hiding when he felt a buzzing against his chest: Jo's phone was ringing. A glance inside his jacket showed that Hanson was calling. He looked around once more for Jo, but she wasn't in the ballroom. He stepped out onto the porch and down into a secluded corner along the outside wall to take the call.

"Good evening, Detective. Please say you have something for us."

* * *

Jo strode quickly to the servants' stairs and halfway down without looking back at either Henry or the Pennyworths. When she got to a small landing, she stopped to think. _It's about time you started thinking_ , she berated herself. She hadn't used her brain since the moment Henry had pinned her against that door; not when he'd kissed her as cover, and not when the kiss had turned real. Certainly not when she'd kissed him back like some teenager under the bleachers on prom night.

Looking down at her dress, she twisted and tugged it to set it to rights, even though nothing was really out place. It was only on the inside that she was completely disheveled. Once again, play-acting and reality were becoming harder and harder to distinguish. She felt like she was trying to solve a murder in a funhouse, and it wasn't fun.

She understood Henry better now that she'd seen him in more or less his natural habitat, but she wasn't sure if that landed them closer together or farther apart. After all, this world would always be foreign to her, and Henry always seemed a little out of sync with the modern world. So where did that leave them? Could there ever _be_ a them, or was this one of those doomed bird and fish situations?

She shook it off and continued down the stairs. She couldn't think about this right now. Before the distraction of their close escape, and that door, and the feel of— before "The Interruption," she and Henry had discovered that the Pennyworths were after scans of the manuscript. That explained their staged distractions to gain access to the Martins' room, but if they knew who the owners were all along, why bother killing the Brewers? The only other guests who had shown any connection to the victims were the Gibsons, and she hadn't heard anything from Hanson since—

Jo cursed. Of course she hadn't heard anything. Henry had her phone. Time to suck it up and go find him. As a bonus, the faster they wrapped up this case, the faster she could get back to real life, and back to thinking clearly about...everything.

She came to the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner quickly, nearly running straight into Sophie Martin.

The woman started and raised a hand to her chest. "Oh! Joanna. You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"What are you doing out here by yourself?" Jo asked, scanning the hallway but not seeing anyone else. If the manuscript was truly the killer's motivation, Sophie was still in danger.

"Oh, just getting some air. That ballroom is getting awfully stuffy, and a little ripe, to be honest. What are _you_ doing out here? Still hiding from Henry?"

Jo made a decision. With the weekend drawing to a close, the killer must be getting desperate to achieve their goal, and that made them dangerous. She and Henry needed all the information they could get, and fast.

"Sophie, my name isn't Joanna Morgan; it's Jo Martinez. I'm a detective—and Henry isn't my husband, he's my partner. We're here investigating a murder, and we think you and Graham may be in danger."

The woman's eyes went wide. "For real?"

Jo smiled grimly. "I would show you my badge, but it didn't work with this outfit."

To her credit, Sophie stayed calm. "This is about the manuscript, isn't it?"

Jo nodded. "Yes, we believe so. Can we go somewhere and talk?"

"Of course," Sophie nodded. "I know the perfect place. Come with me; I'll show you what all the fuss is about."

* * *

"Henry? What are you doing with Jo's phone?" Hanson sounded surprised.

"Jo is away from her phone at the moment," Henry said, and left it at that. "I didn't think you were supposed to call directly; have you discovered something important?"

"Yeah, you could say that. I did a little digging into Jonathan and Caroline Gibson, and they don't exist. The credit card they used to pay for the retreat led to a couple of high-quality fake ID's."

"They could simply be after the manuscript as well," Henry mused, trying not to jump to conclusions.

Hanson went on. "There's something else. We traced the same credit card to payments for internet service and used the IP address to figure out that the Gibsons, or whoever they are, really are regulars on AustenChat. Caroline has only been part of the group for three months, but Jonathan has been an active member for over four years."

"Unlike the Pennyworths, who showed up just long enough to suggest the Exhibition this weekend," Henry said.

"Exactly." Henry heard the tapping of Hanson's keyboard, and the detective added, "There was one period of about eight months when he wasn't logging on, but otherwise Jonathan is almost a daily presence. We followed up on Caroline's claim that he and Brewer knew each other professionally, but there was no Jonathan Gibson listed in any of his nursing programs or as co-workers."

Henry's head snapped to attention and his eyes came alive; several vital pieces had finally fallen into place.

"Doc? You still there?" Hanson prodded.

"He did know the Brewers professionally—they both did." Henry strode back onto the porch and stood in the open French doors, no longer caring if anyone saw him using a phone. Caroline was still in the ballroom, dancing with Graham Martin. "Detective, please tell local PD to get into position, but not to engage. You may wish to come up here now as well."

"Henry, what the hell's going on? Where's Jo?"

"I know what happened. I need to find her."

He hung up the phone to the sounds of Hanson's protests, but he knew the detective would do as he had requested. Henry may not have any actual police authority, but his partner did, and they would both need back-up very soon.

* * *

"Janefanboy and regency_forever are dead? That's awful!" Sophie was leading Jo down the corridor at a much brisker pace than Jo had seen her use before, and something occurred to her.

"Sophie, you're not limping anymore. Is your ankle feeling better?"

The woman looked a little abashed. "Yeah, I was sort of faking it." Jo gave her a questioning cop look—friendly, but still a cop look—and she explained, "I _did_ trip and fall on Thursday, but I pretended it was worse than it was so I could stick close to the manuscript. I knew Lola was up to something."

"How so?"

"Because she's the one who tripped me. At first I thought it was an accident, but when Graham helped me back to our room, the door was unlocked, and we sure as hell didn't leave it that way. We suspected that my fall had been a distraction to slow us down so someone else had time to clear out of our room."

"Why didn't you leave the retreat, or call the police?"

Sophie shrugged. "The evidence seemed pretty flimsy. To be honest, we were sort of enjoying the whole thing. Intrigue is half the fun of a house party."

"So I've heard."

"We did move the manuscript, though. We had our doubts that even the room safe would keep out the searchers."

Sophie stopped in front of a closed door and reached out to turn the handle, grinning a little. "What better place to hide a manuscript than in the library?"

* * *

"May I cut in?" Henry tapped Graham on the shoulder and bowed with practiced nonchalance.

Mr. Martin looked a little surprised until he saw who his interloper was. "Ah, this must be payback for poaching your wife earlier. Very well, I yield." He bowed in return, bowed to Caroline, and walked away with a good-natured grin. "I'll have you know, I regret nothing."

Once he was gone, Caroline cocked an eyebrow and curtsied to her new partner. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor?"

Instead of bowing in return and rejoining the line of dancers, Henry took her elbow and guided her a few steps away from the others. "Caroline Gibson is not your real name, is it?"

She looked taken aback for a moment before she recovered, but the smile that followed didn't quite reach her eyes. "No, of course not. That's how these things work, you know. Everyone here is playing a role, Henry, even you and Joanna."

"True," he admitted, "but how many of us are hiding a murder?"

Her eyes went wide; she hadn't expected him to say that. "What do you—"

"You weren't lying when you told me you knew the Brewers professionally," Henry interrupted. "You merely changed the details. Jonathan wasn't a colleague of Steven's, was he? He was his patient at Riker's Island. And you recognized Jenny the same way. You were both inmates."

Caroline's eyes darted around, and Henry followed her gaze. "Your partner isn't here. Where is he?" Henry was suddenly very aware that he didn't know where Jo was, either, and Sophie Martin was also missing from the ballroom. "Who else is he willing to kill to get the manuscript—unless it was you who killed the Brewers?"

Now she looked truly shocked. "The Brewers are dead?"

"Killed with a Napoleonic naval dirk. I believe you're familiar with the piece."

"Well, it wasn't me!" Something in her demeanor gave way, and Henry knew he was about to hear the truth. "Look, you're right about how we knew the Brewers. James is obsessed with Austen and Regency England—that's not a scam—and we came this weekend to scope out all the Exhibition pieces for later, back in the city. We wouldn't be stupid enough to grab them here."

"Hence your interest in Joanna's necklace."

She shrugged. "I know my business. We ran into the Brewers at the changing house, and they recognized us both. James did some time for fraud and assault, and I—well, never mind about me. We knew we couldn't scope out the valuables when those two might "accidentally" reveal our records and put everyone on guard, so James convinced them to skip the retreat."

"Convinced?" Henry pressed, raising an eyebrow.

"By way of $10,000 cash. Two overworked, underpaid public servants, why wouldn't they take it? He drove back to the city with them to hand it over upfront." When Henry continued to look skeptical, she said, "The payoff for us this weekend would be way more than that, so it seemed reasonable to me. He hired a ride back up here in time for dinner and told me everything was settled."

"Caroline, he did not pay off the Brewers. He slit Steven's throat, stabbed Jenny through the heart, and dumped their bodies in a park. Now where is he?"

"I don't know. Really, I don't!" she insisted, then bit her lower lip. "But once he heard the rumors about the manuscript, he was completely obsessed with finding out who owned it. I was starting to worry he would blow our cover and take it right here. You have no idea how important this stuff is to him."

"Come on," Henry said, taking her firmly by the elbow, "we need to find them." For some reason, he had no doubt that when he found Jonathan—make that James—Gibson, he would find Jo as well.

* * *

There was no wall safe in the library, no trap door in the floor, and no rotating bookshelf revealing a secret room. At least, that's not where Sophie and Graham had hidden their most valuable and sought-after possession.

Sophie led Jo to a range of shelves in one corner of the room. This particular corner contained the complete works of Jane Austen in several editions, plus commentaries, literary analyses, and biographies, all neatly arranged from top to bottom and several feet across.

"Graham picked the spot," she said, scanning the spines for something. "We may be Austenites, but he also loves Indiana Jones."

Jo frowned at the sudden change of topic. "I don't understand."

" 'X' marks the spot. Or more like the carpenter's cup amongst the golden chalices."

Jo followed her gaze, and this time she saw it, buried in plain sight among more impressive bindings: a well-read Penguin Classics paperback copy of _Mansfield Park_ , complete with worn edges and a creased spine. "What is it?"

"It's my college copy of _Mansfield Park_." Sophie pulled the book off the shelf, then took a handful of books from either side of it and stacked them on a nearby table. Flat against the wall behind the spot was a rectangular metal case about four inches thick, almost like a small, very expensive-looking briefcase. Sophie pulled it out and laid it flat on the table as well, unlatched the sides, and opened the lid.

Inside, surrounded by protective padding and archival sheet protectors, was a sheaf of yellowing papers covered with fading but still very legible handwritten script. "This is my other copy of _Mansfield Park_."

"This one looks a little harder to read at the beach," Jo commented, a little awed. She may not have been a hard-core fan like the rest of the guests, but this was still a piece of literary history.

"It's never been about the prestige, or even the bragging rights," Sophie said. "Not that we're above a little bragging—but for us, it's about the story. This is our favorite book."

Jo smiled at the fond look on Sophie's face, but she gently urged her to close the metal case. "If you don't want your story to end with 'killed by murderous book thieves,' I think you should come with me. Let's find Graham and Henry and get somewhere a little more secure."

"My apologies, Detective, but it's too late for that."

Jo and Sophie turned to find Jonathan Gibson behind them, holding a very modern gun. Miss Simmons would not approve.

* * *

 _The end is in sight! Two chapters left now._


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Well, this chapter got long. I thought about splitting it, but nah. Prepare yourself for lots o' plot!**

* * *

After they left the ballroom, Henry dragged Caroline with him to check each of the private rooms, then outside to the stables and the gardens, but they found no sign of Jo or James.

"He wouldn't have left without the manuscript," Caroline insisted. "He must still be inside the house. Maybe he's not with Joanna after all."

"Possible, but unlikely."

"What makes you say that?"

Henry smiled grimly. "I know my partner. She has undoubtedly followed the evidence to both James and the manuscript by now, and whether she likes it or not, I am her back-up."

* * *

 _County Somerset, 1811_

Henry found Rosa where he knew she'd be: elbow-deep in Lord Summersby's papers.

When he opened the door, she spoke without looking up from the desk drawer she was sorting through. "I'm glad you're here, Henry. The search will go more quickly with two."

He closed the door to the study quietly behind him and crossed to her. "How did you know it was me?"

"Who besides me would be here at three in the morning?" She finally looked up and graced him with a small smile. "Besides, your shoes squeak."

"Rosa, I'm sorry we quarreled. I certainly do not think of you as some kind of empty-headed…"

She waved the fingers of one hand in a dismissive, very Latin gesture. "No, Doctor, please. I am sorry. It was not fair to ask so much of you when we are practically strangers. Some things I feel very strongly about."

Henry grinned. "Yes, I had noticed that." He took stock of the study and the papers before him. "What have you discovered so far?"

She held up the file in her hand. "Only business as usual, but these drawers were not locked. I would not expect him to be so careless, especially with company present."

"In that case, where might we find a locked door?" Henry mused.

They both scanned the room, and together their eyes came to rest on a small secretary's desk against one wall. The writing surface was folded up, and when they crossed the room they found it predictably locked.

"I don't suppose you have a skeleton key in your reticule," he said dryly.

"Better." She raised one hand to her head, drew out a hair pin, and inserted it into the lock with practiced ease.

"Where on earth did you learn to do that?" Henry sounded both impressed and amused.

She shrugged and said simply, "I have six brothers and sisters," as if that explained it all.

She soon had the desk open. Inside they saw receipts curled and stacked in pigeonholes, and several leather-bound ledgers lined up in slots.

"I'll start with these, shall I?" Henry gathered a handful of receipts and began to examine them. Rosa chose a ledger, layed it flat on the secretary and opened the cover.

It didn't take long for them to realize they had found what they were looking for. As Henry scanned dozens of receipts for bills paid to blacksmiths, carpenters, shipwrights, and many more guards than an ordinary merchant ship would require, the picture resolved with disturbing clarity.

"It's here—it's all right here." Rosa's voice was uncharacteristically subdued. "Ship names, schedules, ports—number of negroes acquired and surviving negroes delivered." She spoke quietly, but the cold fury beneath her tone was unmistakable.

"Have you found any mention of your father?" Henry asked.

"Not by name, but Summersby does have a partner." Rosa frowned as she closed one ledger and traded it for another. "He refers to him only as 'M.' It seems to be a new arrangement, only in the last year. The earlier ledgers do not mention him."

"It may not stand for Martin," Henry offered. "Many people have the initial 'M,' myself included. It could be mere coincidence."

"That is true. Without more information, I do not know whether to approach my father as an ally or an enemy."

"What are you going to do?"

She sighed. "I will dig deeper into my father's ledgers. Perhaps I will find a clearer answer now that I know where and when to look." She took the dance card and small pencil from around her wrist and used the empty margins to jot down several dates, ships, and amounts exchanged between the partners.

When she was satisfied that she had enough information to continue her investigation, she and Henry returned the ledgers and receipts to where they'd found them, hoping they had left no sign that the items had been disturbed. Rosa used her hair pin to relock the secretary and returned the pin to her mass of curls. Henry was glad that a woman this resourceful was working for the greater good, not some nefarious ends. He was also glad he had no secrets to hide from her.

Together they walked to the door, but before they opened it Henry turned to face her. "I hope you know that I will help in any way I can. When you're ready to come forward with your evidence, please contact me. I don't know how much influence the son who didn't pursue the family business will have with my father, but I'll try."

She placed a hand on his forearm and smiled. "Thank you, Henry. I know you will."

* * *

 _Hopkins House_

Mr. Gibson stepped forward, careful to keep the gun trained on Jo and Sophie, and came within a few steps of them. "Mrs. Martin, my congratulations on acquiring such an incredible piece of literary history. Now if you please, give it to me."

Sophie barked a laugh. "You know, I really don't please, but you're the one with the gun."

"Smart girl. Now come on." He gestured for her to come forward, and she cautiously stepped close enough to hand him the manuscript case.

Jo kept her hands in sight. "I haven't seen you all night—you must have been listening from behind closed doors. How long have you been following us?"

"Long enough to know who you are, Detective." He stressed her title. "I must say, I'm impressed. I can usually spot a fraud a mile away, but you and your partner had me fooled. Well," he qualified, "I'm suspicious of everyone's motives at these things, but no way I would have pegged Henry as a cop."

"He's not a cop," Jo corrected, "he's a doctor. It's his forensic evidence that will put you away for a very long time." She glanced at his gun, still aimed at Sophie and her with steady precision. "That's a pretty modern weapon for an old-fashioned gent like yourself. Where's your dagger?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said blithely. "I'm just a gentleman thief with two obliging ladies to cover me for my big getaway."

He gestured again, indicating that the women should precede him out of the library. Once they were all in the corridor, he passed the manuscript case back to Sophie to hold while he clamped his hand around her arm, effectively holding both her and the case, and he concealed his gun in the small of her back. "We are all going for a nice, refreshing walk to the stables together, and then you and I are going for a ride, Mrs. Martin. Detective, if you so much as reach for your fan before I'm out of sight, I will shoot her without hesitation. Then I'll shoot you." He said it all with a polite smile. "Am I understood?"

Sophie nodded, wide-eyed, and Jo clenched her fists at her sides as she nodded curtly. "Understood."

There was far too much ball gown between her hand and her thigh holster to reach her gun in time unless Gibson got seriously distracted. The stupid Year of Our Lord 1811 might literally kill her if she didn't get some back-up soon.

As complicated as things had gotten between them this weekend, she still needed Henry. He was no cop, but he was smart and resourceful, and he was her partner. She was sure he would find them soon, and in the meantime, she would have to manage the situation herself and look for a way to press their advantage.

The fastest way out of the house from the library would take them past the crowded ballroom and raise far too many questions, so Gibson steered them toward the front hall.

"Threatening a police officer is a serious offense," Jo said, her voice conversational. "You must be pretty desperate to get away. Are you still going to claim you had nothing to do with the Brewers' deaths, Gibson—or whatever your name actually is?"

"It _is_ Gibson—James Gibson." His chin stiffened. "My family connection to the Austens is no lie. Now shut up and keep walking."

Jo noted that questioning his family history had just overshadowed an accusation of murder for him. He was intensely proud; that could be useful later.

They were now moving through to the front hall. Was it really only yesterday that she and Henry had arrived? The Egyptian decorations he found so tacky shone in the candlelight in all their gilded, attention-grabbing glory— which was why Jo's attention was grabbed by one item in particular: an overly-ornate reproduction of a canopic jar with a jackal's head lid. Something didn't quite fit.

She needed to get a closer look at that jar.

* * *

Henry and Caroline had circled the entire outside of the house and now stood on the front steps before the heavy oak doors. Caroline was right: Gibson and Jo were most likely still inside. Henry turned both handles and leaned in, and the double doors swung open with barely a creak.

The scene that greeted him inside the front hall—his partner and Sophie Martin held at barely-concealed gunpoint—only gave him a moment's pause before he recovered. "Ah, here you are, Jo. I see you found our killer, and the manuscript as well. Nicely done."

Jo's almost-smile was the only sign she was relieved to see him. Outwardly, she shrugged nonchalantly. "Party's almost over. I thought it was time to wrap this up." She nodded her head toward Caroline, who was standing in the doorway near him, unsure what to do. "What about her?"

"She claims she was unaware of the murders."

Jo indicated Gibson. "He claims he was too, if you can believe it."

Henry frowned in mock consideration. "No, I really can't."

"What the hell, James?" Caroline found her voice at last and stepped forward just enough to get a clear view of what was happening. "What did you do? Tell me you didn't actually kill those people."

James looked annoyed. "Forget it, Caroline. Just get in here."

She laughed a little hysterically. "Oh right, because _you're_ in such a good position. You really did it, didn't you? And now you're about to bolt and leave me to take the heat? Not a chance. I am so done here." With a dismissive flick of her hand, she turned on one heel and strode away into the night. James yelled after her to come back, but she didn't even slow.

Henry let her go. She wouldn't get far, and they had bigger problems at the moment. He stepped forward into the hall. Gibson looked tense and edgy, no longer the self-assured gentleman thief. Henry's presence and Caroline's desertion were disturbing his sense of control, and that made him dangerous. He still gripped his captive tightly and aimed the gun straight at Jo, no longer bothering to conceal it.

"Stay out of my way! I'm leaving, and Mrs. Martin is joining me."

"Wait." Henry took several quick steps toward him. Gibson swung the gun over to point at him, but it only made Henry pause for a moment. He began moving toward Gibson again, more slowly this time. "Shooting a woman, James? It's not good _ton_. Why not shoot me instead?"

* * *

Henry continued to advance on Gibson, one deliberate step at a time, and Jo realized what he was doing. He _wanted_ the man to shoot him. At least, he wanted to antagonize him enough that James kept the gun aimed at him alone.

"Henry, stop. Not this way."

He turned to face her, and she saw his determination to prevent anyone else from getting hurt. Layered beneath that, she saw his fear, and it caught her off-guard. She sometimes forgot that her partner experienced real death every time he died, still felt the pain and mortal fear of it, and yet he forged ahead like a martyr more often than not. Was it an odd, immortal version of chivalry that blinded him to other options when she and other mortals were in danger—options that didn't involve him dying? She felt a mix of affection and irritation at the thought.

"You really don't need to do this," she reiterated, trying to convey that it was a practical suggestion, not just personal concern.

Henry turned back to Gibson but still spoke to her. "I'll be fine, Jo. You know I will."

She nearly groaned in frustration. "That's not the poin—"

"Sophie!"

Graham Martin stood at the other end of the hallway, and he wasn't alone. The Pennyworths were there too, as well as the lightly swaying Bandersnatches and half a dozen staff members, and more people kept arriving. Apparently the long absence of the Morgans, Gibsons and Sophie from the ballroom had become conspicuous enough for people to come looking for them, or else they heard the commotion between dance sets. Miss Simmons briefly appeared, took one look at the gun, and fled back down the hall.

Gibson angled himself to capture everyone in his field of vision, but he focused on his newest threat: his captive's husband. "Stop where you are!"

Graham froze when the gun swung back wildly to point at his wife. "Okay! Okay, I've stopped. Just take the damn manuscript and let her go."

"I will take it, thank you. And if everyone behaves, I'll let your wife go eventually. No one needs to get hurt." He turned back to Henry with a challenging gleam in his eye. "Unless you still want to get shot."

"Dr. Morgan wants to get shot? Are you sure?" Mrs. Bandersnatch looked simultaneously confused, scandalized and delighted by the unexpected drama.

Henry looked unsure of how to proceed, and Jo could understand why. She _had_ wanted a distraction, but revealing Henry's secret in front of a gossip-hungry housewife, two mercenary journalists and the rest of the house party seemed like overkill.

* * *

Henry looked helplessly from the growing crowd to Jo. Getting shot was becoming an ever more problematic option. Not that he had _intended_ to get shot, but things happened when murderers were armed and cornered.

Jo gave him a significant look as she spoke to the whole room. "Maybe you should back off, Henry. Mr. Gibson has a good reason to want that manuscript. Your family deserves it, don't they, James?"

James narrowed his eyes at her, trying to decide what game she was playing, but Jo kept her face carefully blank.

Henry caught her meaning at last: he may not carry a gun, but against this man, his exhaustive knowledge of 1811 was the perfect weapon. He began drawing Gibson's focus again, this time with the intention to distract instead of get shot. "If you truly are one of the Bath Gibsons, you may be onto something."

James turned to Henry, annoyed. "Of course I'm a Bath Gibson. You heard my family history yesterday. Unless you've spent the last ten years researching my family, I seriously doubt you've got any proof otherwise. Stop trying to distract me."

Henry took a casual step, not toward James but away from Jo, subtly trying to make it harder for him to watch them both. "It's true that I haven't researched the Gibsons specifically, but I know a fair bit about prominent families at the time. You say you're descended from a brother of Jane Austen's sister-in-law, Mary Gibson?"

James' pride won out. "Yes, what of it?"

"I'm curious: which one, exactly? To my knowledge, she had no siblings who survived into adulthood."

* * *

Jo knew that mildly smug expression on Henry's face well. It was irritating when it was aimed at her, but in this case she was thrilled to see it. She could tell Gibson was taking the bait, his attention riveted to the challenge against his familial claims, and she shifted to stand partly behind a hall table as she began to slowly lift one side of her skirt to access her holster.

Gibson was shaking his head vigorously at Henry's claim. "That's not true. I searched the baptismal and marriage records myself and found a Frederick Gibson—"

"Freddy Gibson?" Henry interrupted. "Are you sure you found the right Freddy Gibson? There were two born around that time. Mary Gibson's brother died of a fever at age six. The other Freddy was the son of a fishmonger, I believe."

James had begun to go red in the face as Henry talked, but at the mention of fishmongers, he went white.

"Ahh, you've come across mention of the other Gibsons before, haven't you?" Henry's expression was friendly but distinctly condescending. "You needn't worry that your connection to Miss Austen is severed; the two Gibson families were related to each other. Not legitimately, but still—blood counts for something."

While James stood momentarily frozen in shock and outrage, Jo drew her weapon and flipped her skirts back down in one swift move. She hid the gun behind her back for now; it was still too likely that James would shoot Sophie, Henry, or someone else in the room if she forced a confrontation, but now she was ready for the smallest opening.

"I…am not…a bastard fishmonger!" James gritted through his teeth.

"Henry," Jo said calmly, "would you come over here, please?" She looked to Gibson and added, "If that's alright with you?"

"I don't care where he stands!" James yelled, then forced himself to calm down. "In fact, I can shoot you both much more easily if you're together, thank you." Henry moved to stand near Jo, and Gibson took several steps toward the open front door, dragging poor Sophie with him.

"The thing is, Doctor Morgan," Jo went on, "I need a consultation."

"Yes, of course, Detective," Henry answered with professional blandness, ready to play along with whatever she was up to.

"You examined the bodies of Jenny and Steven Brewer. Would you recognize the murder weapon if you saw it?" She gave a significant glance to the canopic jar on the table next to her. The lid was ever so slightly slanted, which gave the jackal an intoxicated tilt to its head and shoulders.

As expected, Henry understood immediately. "Yes, I would recognize it. The weapon was a Napoleonic dirk with a small nick in the blade, which will make it rather straightforward to identify. It was approximately fourteen inches long." He held his hands the appropriate distance apart. "About the height of this jar, in fact."

"That jar looks a little shorter than fourteen inches," Jo commented.

"I believe you're right, Detective." Henry reached forward to remove the lid. "If one tried to hide the dirk in here, the lid would not quite…" He reached in with one gloved hand and pulled out a straight, double-edged blade. "…fit."

"Slight nick?" Jo asked.

Henry turned the blade over in the light to examine it. "Indeed."

"You two think you're so clever." James was nearly to the door now, still gripping Sophie by the arm. His voice was no longer overwrought; rather, it had turned deadly calm. "Yes, I did kill them. They were cogs in a machine of institutionalized slavery. No one will miss them."

"You weren't a slave, Gibson. You were in prison." Jo tightened her grip on her gun but didn't draw it yet.

"And who got to name what I was? The ones holding the keys and the power, that's who." He glanced momentarily at the case Sophie still clutched in one hand. " _Mansfield Park_ is mine by rights. The Gibsons have always opposed the slave trade, just like Fanny Price. We were the inspiration for Austen's heroine. Not like those rich slavers at the time."

His face curled into a snarl. "They were deplorable, sub-human monsters who would do anything to turn a profit." He gestured to Jo, indicating her fine dress and jewelry. "How much ballroom finery was bought with blood money? Those families are the ones who deserve to rot in jail, not me."

Jo had sensed Henry's body tensing up from the moment Gibson had begun his rant. His fists were curled into balls at his side, one around the knife hilt and the other on itself. She knew enough of his family history to know that this lunatic's words were cutting into him as surely as if Gibson had stabbed him with that blade.

Without consciously deciding to, Jo reached over and covered his clenched fist with her free hand. He relaxed at the contact; not entirely, but enough to open his hand and turn it over to interlace his fingers with hers. She squeezed her silent support, he squeezed back, and he looked over with a grateful smile before letting go.

"Think about it, Gibson," Jo said, looking back at him. "How far do you really think you'll get on horseback?"

He shrugged. "Far enough to find a car and get the hell out of town."

"And these witnesses?" Henry added, recovering his presence of mind. "Do you suppose none of them will give testimony when we catch you?" He gestured to the far end of the hall, where what appeared to be the entire staff and guest list had gathered to witness the spectacle—all except one. Miss Simmons had returned, but someone else was conspicuously missing.

Jo and Henry looked at each other and asked in unison, "Where's Graham?"

With perfect dramatic timing, they heard an answering grunt from the door. They whirled around to see Graham slam into Gibson. He must have run around the outside of the building to sneak up on his wife's would-be kidnapper from behind. He was the bigger man, but Gibson was more desperate, and they seemed almost evenly matched. Graham was struggling to keep the gun pointed at the ceiling and yelling, "Run, Sophie!"

"Like hell!" was Sophie's reply. She yanked her arm away from Gibson and with both hands, she swung the solid metal case into the side of his head. He jerked sideways and lost his grip, and the gun went scurrying across the floor. He and Graham both dove for it, but before either one could reach it, Jo's voice rang out.

"Freeze, both of you!" She was standing in front of them, kicking the gun well out of reach and training her weapon on Gibson. "Graham, stand up and move away. Sophie, tell him if he does anything that stupid again, I will arrest him too." Sophie smacked her husband solidly in the chest with her fist before wrapping him in a rib-crushing hug, and that said it all.

Before he moved to stand beside his partner, Henry put the dagger back in its faux-Egyptian resting place for safekeeping, with a warning look to Sir Benedict, who had drifted closer now that Gibson was down. "Don't touch that," Henry admonished. "It's evidence." The man silently shook his head.

"James Gibson, you are under arrest for the murders of Steven and Jenny Brewer." Jo paused before reading him his Miranda rights. "Henry, would you please grab my handcuffs?"

"Certainly. Which side?" She frowned in confusion until she saw him scanning the length of her dress, no doubt deciding which thigh to check first for another holster.

"In the room, Henry."

"Right! Sorry." He turned to head up the stairs before she could see the look on his face, but she knew her partner. He didn't sound sorry.

* * *

 _In case you're not a sucker for Regency romance like I am and the term 'ton' was confusing:_

 _"The ton" is a term commonly used to refer to Britain's high society during the late Regency and the reign of George IV, and later. It is a French word meaning (in this sense) "manners" or "style"... The full phrase is le bon ton meaning "good manners" or "good form" (Wikipedia)_

 _Now that the whodunit is did, all that's left is wrap-up and feeeeeelings. Yay! :)_


	14. Chapter 14

"Jo, you look amazing!" Lucas didn't even attempt to hide his gawk as he took in her dress, hair, and the rest of her ensemble. "I mean, you always look amazing, but now you look amazing in a really Austen-y way."

"Thanks?" She wasn't sure how to take that.

"Lucas, there is no victim to examine," Henry pointed out. "You didn't need to come all this way."

"That's what I told him," Hanson said, rolling his eyes as he returned to their circle. He'd been speaking with local PD, arranging to have James Gibson transferred into Eleventh Precinct custody.

"Like I would miss the chance to see you two all dolled up? No way." Lucas looked them both over again and shook his head in appreciation. "You are seriously killing this look. Oh! We should totally dress up for Halloween this year! I've got a steampunk Dr. Frankenstein cosplay that will blow your mi…" He trailed off at the looks he was getting from Henry, Jo and Hanson combined. "Message received: save it for the party. You're all coming this year, right?" They were spared from answering when a woman passing by caught Lucas's attention. "Hey, I think I met her at a LARP game last year. She must have lost my number." He moved to intercept.

Hanson glanced around. "Quite the cast of characters you've got here." He checked his notebook. "Have either of you seen Ms. Simonson around? I need to confirm that we've talked to everyone in the house." Jo pointed out the spot against one wall where their nineteenth-century expert was slouching and texting unabashedly on her smartphone. Hopkins House had officially re-entered the twenty-first century.

Contrary to appearances, Simonson hadn't fled from the confrontation with James Gibson; she'd run to her office to call the police. They had already been waiting nearby thanks to Hanson's alert, and at her report of an officer in need they'd come running. Of course, they had arrived to find a sullen Gibson already handcuffed and under Jo's close watch.

Caroline was also in custody. She'd been surprised to storm off only to find the police waiting on the edge of the property, but with no money, no car, and only ball slippers on her feet, she'd seemed more relieved than anything else to catch a ride in the back of a squad car. The contingent from the Eleventh had arrived an hour or so later to find the drama over and nothing left to do but help take dozens of witness statements.

The entry hall was filled with an eclectic mix of Austenites and police, and both uniformed and plainclothes officers were standing in groups of twos and threes with costumed guests. It reminded Jo of some kind of anthropological study or cultural exchange. She and Henry still looked like two of the native villagers, but instead of mingling with them like before, the other villagers were now looking at them with a certain amount of caution and awe, murmuring to each other but no longer to them.

Henry noticed the direction of her gaze and guessed her thoughts. "I believe our status has been downgraded from 'guests' to 'invaders.' "

"Nah, they're just intimidated." They turned to see Graham and Sophie Martin. It was Graham who had offered that insight.

"Don't forget busy gossiping," Sophie added, "and one-upping each other's stories. This is the most excitement we've ever had at The Austen Experience. Trust me, they love it."

"Besides," Graham added, "police or not, no one is blind enough to think you're an outsider around here, Henry. No offense, Joann—I mean, Detective."

"None taken," she said sincerely. "And please, call me Jo." She patted her partner on the arm. "When it comes to living in the wrong century, Henry here is the real deal."

Henry accepted the tease with a small nod. "It's true that I have done my share of personal research in the time period." Jo suppressed a grin, and Henry turned to Graham. "In fact, I've been meaning to ask you: does the Martin family come from Spanish ancestry?"

"Yeah, actually, we do. It used to be Martín, but one branch of the family emigrated to England and anglicized it. How did you know?"

Henry smiled. "Family resemblance."

While he shared what he knew with Graham (within reason) of the remarkable Martin family, Sophie pulled Jo aside and walked with her in the other direction.

"When you say that you and Henry are 'partners,' is that just a work thing, or…?" She trailed off, her question obvious.

"It's a work thing," Jo answered quickly out of habit, but then she sighed and confided, "It's a complicated thing. I don't honestly know what we are right now."

"If you don't mind a little advice from a near stranger, forget about complicated. Make it simple. Get changed, take that man home, and show him how you feel—without the fan this time—because honey, it's obvious that he feels the same way."

From across the room, Graham was beckoning for his wife to join him; Hanson had a few more questions for them. She turned to Jo and gave her a quick hug. "Thanks for everything."

Jo returned the hug. "It was a pleasure to meet you both. Take care of yourself."

"Maybe we'll see you two again at one of these things—as yourselves next time." With a wink, Sophie went to join her husband.

Henry returned to stand by Jo once more, and she realized that they were alone (more or less) for the first time since that kiss. With everything that had happened since then, the intensity and then panic she'd felt at the time had faded to merely a heightened awareness of him whenever he was near. " _Merely"—ha._

"Well, Detective, was 1811 as trying as you'd feared?"

Jo looked back at him, appreciating one last time how well he wore this century. Rather than answer the question, she asked, "Was it hard for you, coming back? Especially knowing that the twenty-first century was lurking just past the garden?"

He cocked his head thoughtfully. "It _was_ somewhat bittersweet, but I believe the sweet outweighed the bitter." He gestured to the strange scene before them. "After all, we solved two murders and caught the killer." He turned back to face her. "And I very much enjoyed being here with you."

There was no mistaking his stress on the last two words, or the way he held her gaze firmly in his own. Maybe Sophie was right; maybe this should be simple. They were here this weekend because they had chemistry. That meant they solved cases better than any other pair in the precinct. That also meant they shared an attraction that sometimes led them to make out in darkened corridors. Maybe it was time to stop ignoring that second thing.

"I'm glad I was here with you, too." They stood there for a moment, somewhere between two centuries, just the two of them.

Finally, Henry offered his arm. "May I accompany you back to the room? It's time we packed up and went home."

Jo looped her arm through his. "On one condition: we're stopping for gyros on the way. I'm buying."

* * *

 _County Somerset, 1811_

Henry managed to finagle a private moment with Rosa before she stepped into her coach.

He bowed politely over her hand, and for the benefit of nearby departing guests he said in a strong voice, "I wish you a safe journey back to London, Miss Martin." For her ears only, he added, "And I wish you luck."

"Thank you, Henry," she said. "It may take time, but I will uncover the truth, however painful it may be."

"You can rely on me if ever you need help. I may express myself with rather more reserve than you, but I abhor the slave trade just as much."

"I've never doubted that." Her smile was sincere, but to Henry's eyes she looked rather sad. Perhaps it was the thought of her father's possible involvement that made her melancholy.

The coach was at last packed and ready. Henry handed her in, and a footman shut the door. Rosa leaned out through the open window. "Whatever happens, Dr. Morgan, never doubt that I believe in you. Never doubt that you are a good man."

The coach lurched forward, and he bowed a final farewell, puzzled. Whatever did she mean by that? Frowning at the vehicle's receding shape brought no clarity, so Henry attributed the comment to Miss Rosa Martin's continuing mystique, then he turned and went back into the house.

* * *

 _Manhattan, New York City_

Sunday passed quietly above Abe's Antiques. Henry had arrived home well after midnight on Saturday, so the next morning Abe made brunch while Henry caught him up on everything that had happened at Hopkins House—well, almost everything. His son asked a few pointed questions about their cover story and sleeping arrangements, but Henry kept his answers vague. He realized that by doing so, he as good as admitted that something had happened between Jo and himself, but Abe didn't push. He only grinned and served up the frittata, apparently satisfied that things were progressing. Henry suspected that his son didn't want to spook him by pushing too hard. What Abe didn't realize was that Henry was ready to be pushed a little.

He wouldn't deny that he had enjoyed spending the weekend in 1811; the slower pace, the manners, and the attention to detail were all things he missed in the modern age. However, the thing he had enjoyed the most was spending the weekend with Jo. He had found unexpected pleasure in showing her his "home," imperfect recreation though it had been. The pleasure he'd found in their accidental moments needed no explanation. It didn't matter what century she inhabited: she was smart, and strong, and beautiful. Quite simply, she was remarkable.

Back in May, she had accepted his secret with surprise and a little anger at past deceptions, but also with all the fortitude and loyalty he should have expected. Months had passed since then, and the truth hadn't driven her away. They were still partners, still friends, and every day it was harder to ignore that something more was growing. Letting go of Abigail was one thing, but was he ready for the inevitable pain of putting his immortal heart in mortal hands again? Jo was a remarkable woman. Was he ready to do her justice?

It was time to at least ask the questions. He was ready for that much. Maybe they could seek the answers together.

* * *

"Look who I found on our doorstep." Jo followed Abe up the stairs. He proceeded into the kitchen to put away his bag of groceries, and she turned to Henry where he sat in his favorite chair.

"Good evening, Jo." He set his scotch on the end table and stood up to greet her. "How are you enjoying your return to the here and now?"

"Well, it only took me five minutes to get dressed this morning." She indicated her jeans and v-neck tee shirt, as well as the hair that fell casually over her shoulders. "Of course, after that I was stuck in traffic for forty-five minutes. I'll admit, each century has its advantages." She stood before him now, a bag dangling from one hand.

"Elaborate gowns may not be your preferred style, but for the record, you looked stunning."

She smiled self-consciously. "Thanks. You clean up pretty good yourself. Any Jane Austen heroine would be proud to have you."

Henry paused a moment and seemed to consider his response before saying, "And what about undercover weekend warriors? What do they think?"

So much for small talk. Her first instinct was to defer and change the subject. Sure, he was immortal, and that complicated things, but the real issue was the way she felt around him, off-balance and so _aware_ , and it was only getting worse. This impossible man had somehow become the most real thing in her life. She hadn't felt this way since Sean, and that was more than a little terrifying. Terrifying, and exhilarating.

She made a decision. It was time to stop ignoring, stop deferring. Either they had something or they didn't.

"The weekenders think you look pretty good in pantaloons." She gave him an exaggerated once-over, just to own it, and to give herself an escape hatch if needed. _Ha ha, only kidding. See you at work?_

"And that's my cue." Jo and Henry both turned in surprise; they had forgotten Abe was there. "If you're going to talk about Henry's pantaloons, I'm going over to Jerry's for poker night."

"No, Abe, you don't need to go..."

Abe waved off her protests as he headed for the stairs. "Don't be silly! You two have a lot to talk about. Don't wait up, Pops."

Just like that, they were alone. Henry turned back to her, and they laughed a little awkwardly at the hasty and blatant set-up.

"May I offer you a drink?"

She felt suddenly nervous. "No, thanks. I just stopped by to return this." She reached into her bag and pulled out a flat, square jewelry box, offering it to him. He took it, opening the lid to reveal blue and clear gemstones winking gently in the evening light. The fond look on his face confirmed her suspicions.

"That's not really costume jewelry, is it?" When he looked up with a pathetic attempt at surprise, she added, "Caroline wasn't the only person to comment."

"It was a wedding gift from my father to my mother," he admitted. He ran one finger along the central blue stone, arranging the piece gently in its resting place. "I bought it at auction before I came to New York."

"I don't suppose they had cubic zirconia back then."

"Sapphire and diamonds."

She decided not to ask him how much it was worth. "Henry, I'm honored you wanted me to wear it, but why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think you would accept it if you knew—and you wore it so well." He lifted his head, and the way he was looking at her, she might still have been wearing the ball gown and necklace instead of a t-shirt and jeans.

"It really is beautiful." Jo looked down at the heirloom, then back at Henry. He hadn't mentioned it out loud, but Gibson's venom about the spoils of the slave trade was burning like slow acid in the silence. "Were they in love, your mother and father? I know that wasn't always the norm back then."

He smiled, and his face held far-distant memories. "Yes, I believe they loved each other very much."

"Then I'm still honored." She reached out to place her hand over his as he held the box. "Your father's mistakes don't erase that love. It sounds like he bought this without blood money, anyway. We're allowed to have good memories of flawed people, Henry. There's no other kind."

"Thank you." He gently closed the case and set it on the table, then lifted his eyes back to her. "Thank you for reminding me. I need that sometimes."

The moment felt so honest and safe that it gave Jo the strength to forge ahead before she could change her mind.

"Speaking of reminders, we should talk about yesterday morning…and maybe that thing in the hallway."

"Yes, we should." Jo wasn't imagining the hint of smolder that returned to his eyes at the reference to their kiss, but he didn't start there. "Jo, the way we woke up—it truly was unconscious."

"I know," she rushed in, wanting to assure him that whatever she'd said in frustration, she didn't really think he'd taken advantage of her.

He cut her off. "The thing is, it was only unconscious in the beginning. Once I was awake, I still didn't move. I didn't want to."

She took a deep breath and let it out. "I didn't want to move either."

"It's only natural to seek comfort when we wake up next to someone." His words offered an escape route, even if his face told a different story.

"Sure—if it's the right someone."

She waited. He held her gaze, but he didn't dive into the opening she'd left. Maybe this was all the progress she could expect from Henry in one day.

"I should go. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow." He reached out and took her right hand, but he didn't shake it. He held it flat, palm down, cradling her fingers and stroking them lightly with his thumb. "Jo, I want you to know something."

"What?"

In answer, he bent his head and brought her hand to his lips. He lingered just below her knuckles, his lips soft and warm, until he lifted his head to meet her eyes.

There was no mistaking his meaning. In 1811 it would have been a completely scandalous gesture. Even here in the present, Jo could feel her heart racing at the heat and intimacy he had packed into a simple hand-kiss. Plus, he was giving her _that look:_ the one that made her show up on his doorstep instead of flying off with Isaac. The one that made her want to get lost in Paris with him.

"There's no hurry. I've got all the time in the world. Goodbye, Joanna." It was his farewell to their cover story, and an invitation to something real, when she was ready.

"Good night, Henry." She turned to leave. She even took a few steps, but it didn't feel right. They weren't done here.

It was time to admit what she wanted.

She stopped abruptly and turned back. Henry had been following her to the door, and he pulled up short, face to face. She ran a hand through her hair. "You know, you may be willing to keep dancing around for another year, or thirty, but I'm not. I'm not looking forward to seeing you at work tomorrow and pretending that work is the only thing on my mind. I'm not excited about all the questions we'll answer not quite truthfully, or all the lying we'll do to ourselves so we don't have to deal with what's happening. It'll be complicated, and I'm getting exhausted just thinking about it."

"What do you suggest we do?" His question was equal parts caution and hope.

She took a step forward. "Simplify."

The question in his eyes turned to dawning realization, and he took a step to meet her halfway. They both leaned in until they she could feel his breath against her lips. They paused there for a heartbeat or two, taking in the moment before. Each of them felt the other smile a little, and then the moment before was over.

At first, their lips were the only place they were touching. They explored slowly, intentionally, mapping out the contours. Eventually his hands came up to frame her face, and her hands reached out to lightly grip his waist. They stayed that way for long minutes, content for now to use only lips and tongues to declare their intentions. _What an archaic way to put it_ , Jo thought, and smiled. It was perfect.

She broke the kiss and looked at him. He smiled back.

"You're saying this is simpler than what we were before?" Her smile widened at his question, because the time before was already past tense, already a fond history.

"Yes. And no." She backed away from him and stepped deeper into his apartment. She slipped off her shoes, sat down on the loveseat, and tucked her feet under her, looking for all the world like she was planning to stay a while. Maybe forever. "I think I'll have that drink after all."

Henry grinned and bowed deeply. "As the lady wishes."

THE END

* * *

 **A/N:** Well, we made it! I was surprised to realize last chapter that this is now the longest fanfic I've ever written. Thank you all so, so much for reading, reviewing, following, and generally being part of the loveliest little fandom on the interwebs. I hope you've enjoyed reading half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

If the muses cooperate, I plan to participate in my first NaNoWriMo during the month of November, which probably means little to no fanfic writing (any other crazy people doing this? PM me! Let's commiserate!), but I'll be back eventually. In the meantime, maybe I'll see you around on Tumblr when I'm procrastinating. DFTBA!


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